Quatrains

Her portrait forged in fog and smoke -

a dancer dancing just for me.

The gentle taps of her pen stroke

echo metronomically.

The withered leaf, the nightly pain -

November brings her some relief.

She listens and transcribes the rain -

her symphony, her masterpiece.

And in my hand I find a note

which she has written long ago:

“Don’t love me but don’t love me not.

Don’t hold on but don’t let go.”