Spring, Halted

The photograph is fading
with age, tinted
antique-gold
after years
of being on my desk.

Only the scarf
remains its original shade,
glorious brown
against my ivory skin.
The scarf I wore throughout
that sultry Spring,
indulging in the smell of witch hazel
which lingered after giggly rolls
in piles of leaves.

The scarf that
covered the lump
in my throat the day
I left, looking back
at the diminishing
countryside, seeing
nothing but skies which
knew everybody’s secrets,
meowing stray cat collapsing
under a warm spot of sunlight,
trees swaying to the beat
of the wind.
I tried to breathe in
Spring’s sultry aura
through the unwound
window but all I felt
was a musty farewell
and the scarf flapping
moistly against my face.

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