At the Other End

His birthday is today,
Hers is at the other end
Of month, of season,
Filled with cool,
Filled with color
And the steady slipping down
Of skirts cast from trees.
So today, as I celebrate him,
I find my heart clenched
And a steady ache within,
For the cool and the colors,
The steady slipping down of skirts,
Will no longer be punctuated
With a celebration of her.
The pumpkins, plump,
That called her name,
Will only cast echoes upon the wind,
And today, when we sing
Loud and raucous for him,
I will hear those echoes
And know
That at the other end
Of month, of season,
Will be deafening
Silence.