MY LOVE IS GONE

So falls
The failing breast,
The last sweet breath--
My love is gone.
Like this she died--
As if it were
One
Of many things to do.

It did not fit
My scheme of things.
But autumn
Brings its withering call,
And petals fall.
She died--like that:
As if it were
One
Of many things to do.

The cold
Descends upon us all.
She died--like that:
As if it were
A little thing to do.

© 1997 by Pasqual S. Schievella