After the New Moon

When the time comes, bury me
in the deepest part of memory,
the place where names fade
and last leaves lose their grip
to wild and icy winds.
 
When I’m gone, stop at the edge
of places we walked together
and listen hard for soft silences,
autumn days drained of sunlight,
and songs we once sang.
 
And when your days grow short,
I’ll return to you in the fullness
of a harvest moon in October,
a pocked circle painted yellow
by chilled winds heavy with dust.

                                                   --Todd Williams