an old scene, freshly viewed
                                 the silent, ebony glide of a late butterfly
                                  noticed for the first time . . .
                             a final embrace of loss--
                               ascension into knowing goodbye as a virtue--
                                 growth through parting
                                   with memories forever dead, but offering hope . . .
                             like the dry and brittle auburn leaf
                                 falling alone,
                                   in slow motion,
                                    in my youthful autumn
                                        so far away, but never distant,
                               allowing us to leap--
                                  not afraid to land . . .