Leaving

I was waiting for you
at the end of the long
gravel road that wound
through the woods,
the house barely visible
back in the trees,
two windows lit
and balancing
November’s early dark.
Walking out, I had watched
a sky turning from bone
to ash to black.
I had money and night
things stuffed in my bag,
I hoped you would see me
in the headlights.
A soft rain began.
It fell on the shoulders
of my upturned coat,
wet my face, my hair,
I could hear it falling
through the tough, hard
oaks and beeches,
the late autumn leaves
still stubborn on the trees,
sounding like birdshot,
or grains of sand
steadily, finely pouring.
And I thought suddenly
how I wanted to forget you,
forget everything,
that moment
go utterly blank,
so that I could
come back
and remember it
all from the start
to that waiting,
alone in the fresh,
cold night
and the rain
ticking, ticking.