It lay, an image on the stone,

         imprinted long ago,

               on some unknown, bygone day

                      when she had rested there

                             leaving as the mark of it

                                     her essence, browned and damp.

He came, a smaller one than she,

        and lost upon his way,

               stumbling down upon the rock,

                       blown by sudden winds

                             October sent across the land,

                                     lifting him from all he knew.

She was gone, a leaf no more,

          an imprint on the rock;

      he encountered that

                        it was enough somehow--

                             for he knew with all he was

                                    that she had come this way.

Comfort flowed through all his veins,

          as he lay there close beside

               where she had been, what she had been,

                       and in the silent afternoon

                              he touched the mark of her

                                     and felt no more alone.



Jo Anzalone  Nov. 1, 2006