Returning, one cold winter morning, to a place that we went together.
The fountain that the afternoon sun once caught, glimmering, today ran dry.
The groups of people walking in the park were absent and all was quiet, except for churchbells ringing across the street (for whom?), ringing for minutes, dozens of minutes, a half hour, maybe more.
The colorful leaves signalling the New England autumn are long gone, and the sun tries its hardest to shine through the clouds, through the tree branches, to where I stand–where we once stood.
Those moments will never happen again. Things are beautiful today in a different way. And that is why I say to you,
ichigo ichie.