You walk among the quiet flowers
and under the distant church bells.
The hush is such that your footfalls
burst over the whispering rain
and, every second, shatter the still air.
The sky is giving way to night,

darkening slowly, aging the yet young night.
You wonder if you are disturbing the flowers
or inconveniencing the air.
You think you hear an answer in the bells
and in the soft-spoken rain.
Your feet are lighter in their fall.

The trees have been touched by fall –
painted leaves sing with color even in night,
even in rustling rain.
You tell your secrets to the flowers,
who listen carefully over the bells.
The words wind through the air,

smooth, cat-like. The air
is full of secrets and of fall –
rustling leaves and half-heard words join the bells
in harmony. The sky deepens, night
brushes the petals of the flowers
like the gentle rain.

You take the soft touch of rain
as a kiss, the cool caress of air,
an embrace. You thank the flowers
and feel a bit less empty. The last light falls.
You give your secrets to the night.
You sing your secrets with the bells.

Turning, you walk under the bells,
under the rain,
under the night.
Your thanks catch in the air
and join the sharp chill of fall.
You say a fond farewell to the flowers.

Distant bells ring over quiet flowers.
Whispering rain – gentle unceasing – falls.
The night breathes out a sigh through still air.