We swore young love would never die;
we’d cherish one another ever more;
yet, every season has its longing,
and summer’s truly autumn dawning.
Now twisted leaves hang on mute trees;
bare earth’s blown cold and hard,
and under sod’s the only stirring.
But even though
our waning fall
buds no more hopeful blossoms;
still, intimately entwined
like two withered vines,
each props the other up.
I.B. Rad is a widely published Dallas Texas poet who thinks the form of a poem should follow its function. No one form is the “correct” way to write.