It is arresting like colorful leaves flying to the ground,  
sadness not exactly unwanted, you know.  

Quietly palpable in the yawning morning, 
wavering nuances on the back of the afternoon sun, and with the 
clock of moon to moonless dark, soft tick-tock, tick-tocking. 

What is this longing, 
so much in love with me?    

---
J. A. Odartey