I remembered that spring day, Merry Widow was on the radio, rubber pressing into the curves of Mason Mill and my hours which were cleaved into silly merriment and still contenment, by your presence.

Today as I drove by that rusted fence, with bronzed beeches beyond, the radio turned off, rain singing on the sun roof. It occured to me, how Time is now more simply divided into sleeping and
this waking into your absence.