I walk bath house row, mourning our passing.
Hot Springs, with its smell of crushed leaves
and blue smoke, rising in tufts over the winter trees,
some bare, others feathered green for the duration.
For the duration, my consort,
as your promise of fealty to me.
In its place, passion and passion’s passing,
from birth to demise, like the season’s leaves
wafting to the forest floor in riotous apostasy,
your allegiance to me crunching underfoot as I travel,
Away, and still farther away.
Thoughts on the Third Chakra