I was dreaming.
All I could see
was a sparse stand of trees.
An autumn,
cannot but know
the pity of things.
I thought.
As if by magic,
you appeared.
Touching me you with my mind
I asked the way.
“Think of the happiness that’s yet to be”
you said.
And upon the floor
we made a bed of autumn leaves.
A Wandering Poet 