A Widower’s Fifth September

In this scenic part of my native South
near mouths of the region’s deepest rivers,
although not every tree is evergreen,
deciduous are few and far between.
The Lowcountry woods are dry due to drought,
the leaves colorless, as drab as my mood.
Still, I come for solace, find food for thought.
Unaligned pines respect my privacy,
expressing silently their empathy.

In this, the fifth September without you
beside me to see these few signs of fall,
I would give all I own and promise more
to the charity of your choice to hold
your hand in mine again and hear your voice.
Frolicking as before, we would wander
in love and sacred lust, but never lost,
going ever deeper into quiet,
greenish shadows miles beyond a true sign
of the beauty of being together:

Sixteen hundred days have come between us.
Surely, soon I will find final closure.
This perennial renewal of grief
will, I pray, be reasonable and brief.
Seasons shall continue to come and go.
So, I paraphrase Ecclesiastes:

To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to grieve, and a time when a widower
must let go and say, “Goodbye, Grief.”