Untitled (For an Old Poet, V)

My dearest,
my dreamer,
my tired-to-the-bones girl,
I write to you
as the air of autumn
slowly makes its return,
as summer and all its gold
makes one last appearance
before fading away again.

I write to tell you
that this was not
the June
or July
or anything
we dreamed of,
but it was one
where we were seen,
where our sisters
carried us
when I could not carry you
any longer,
no matter how hard I tried,
even amongst
all the tears and complications
that come with being siblings
in heaven’s choirs.

I write to you
to give you some solace
amongst the disturbances
I failed to protect you from,
amongst the walls
that have been crumbling down
around us,
amongst the water
that threatens with every tide
to pull us under; for
these glimmers of hope
are worth it;
this is not forever.

I write to tell you
that I am tired too,
as your sworn protector
and a stranger in this strange land.

But I promise you
my dearest,
my old poet,
that I will always fight our battles,
even when the losses
feel far more weighty
than the wins.