Seemingly life slowed for one,
similarly for another
time loomed shorter.
Then quietude
as pen slows,
dialogue slides to monologue.
Pen lifts off paper
and that,
pushed away.
You took your summer,
your seasonal desires,
he got his vacation, finally.
Soon, my summer,
transitions then
the autumn of my life.
Too late, seems,
I was at your gate,
but now mine beckons others.
But enough,
not even that
for I divest.
Look up dearest
what does your life see?
Tree, fruits, vine?
Flat lining across that horizon,
or perchance perceive, cool courtyard,
a mountain that moves with the sun, surf-sound?