The Wanderer

My world dissolves into autumn,
the shade and the fire draped about my throat
like so many jewels.
I met the mist as an old lover,
let the dew paint my lips
with the scent of harvest.
In a white memory, you are still walking away,
down that same road.
Your hair was shining like the fall.
Your shape in the fog beckons;
ghost or vision, I care not.
I lose myself.