There were whispers of
autumn in your fingertips
on the day we met:

the crisp breeze of your
words, the brown hue of your smile,
the frost-glazed friendship.

You wound grounded leaves
around your lifeline and turned
them into snow drifts -

and they fell like tears
into my dreams, out my eyes,
to decorate my sleep.

There was an offer
of re-birth in your palm as
you stretched it out for

clouds to decorate.
And the skies scrolled over it,
dyeing it orange.

You presented me with
gifts of a dying season
and bound it tightly

between the clutch of
your henna palm and mine - white
like the innocence

in your lightened smile.
You were always my haiku
in all its meanings:

complex to structure,
ambiguous in meaning,
beauty in snapshots.