His fragile memory always searches,
on a quiet bench he softly perches,
when, with eyes closed, he tries to remember
the fall winds blowing that late November.
The scent of her body – a rare perfume
would saturate his senses, then consume
and linger like a dream in early morn,
for within those moments their love was born.
In autumn’s crisp breezes, now he awaits,
warmed by passion her memory creates,
the sound of her voice, like a bird in song –
to her melody he’ll always belong.
The lover’s treasure is tears that are wept;
in the beat of his heart, tribute is kept.
He recalls facing death – back then in time,
viewing the mountain they had yet to climb.
He never showed fear or loss to her face
though now she’s the one whom angels embrace.
The last words she spoke, as he held his wife,
"Please love me, dear, for the rest of my life."
With tears he answered, in softest resign,
"Even more, I’ll love you... the rest of mine."