All eyes turn to the full moon

and I think of the months

I would live without you.

At first, counting, one, two,

the belly of the autumn leaf

facing the sky, before it touches

the cold ground.

The shedding of the seasons

as close to me as the dry skin

on my thumb, hardening

before it leaves.

Until slowly —

like sunflowers craning east,

I would remember you.

Each memory sown willfully

into the verdant expanse

that sees the sun rise daily

on the field.