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Counting The Stars Of That Erstwhile Season
With the cold night's perfume clinging to me,
 and winter lurking behind the autumn-colored leaves,
 I'm shadowed by the new moon's shooting stars,
 the memories of an eternity all too transient
 which now cradle my heart in a bed of thorns,
 nestling ill-fated lovers hope and despair
 with silence-tempered patience--
 and I know, in some hours, the sun will rise and illuminate 
 the phantom evidence of my stalkers,
 their cosmic dust and soft laughter,
 but until then, I stare up at my ceiling, 
 counting the stars of that erstwhile season

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