10-AUTUMN RECKONING

Cool air spiced with drying, dying leaves

reminds me of my husband

and a sonnet written by Shakespeare

to his love, likening his dropping hair

to autumn trees and death. A real bear,

my husband has gone to his den, shoulders hunched.

When we met, we fit—

I blotted out the rest.

Illness, that cruel hunter, shot to maim. 

He’s like the jeans I pull on every morning—

worn but comfy watching TV together  

or walking, alone, on a misty afternoon.

I will cherish each embrace and kiss

which may leave ere long, as Shakespeare wrote.