POCKET SHRINK

Remnants

Leaves scraped,
eddied at our feet
and flung themselves
into the wind.
Our few words
went with them.
It was a cold day.
You hugged your arms
and lifted two fingers in farewell.
Never, I thought, would I forget
that last look.
But what I remember,
every Novenber,
are the bobbing heads
of dried flowers
that lined the path.

Bridget Harwell