Exhale

The quiet sigh
that rushes from my parted lips
is like the last breath of the sun
before the onslaught of fall

it is the folding wings of sparrows nesting
and the silent dry flight
of falling leaves

it is a gaze held a second too long;
the soft mistake of a body
held too close

the last exhalation
to escape from this figure of hope
is like a curtain softly but firmly drawn
against the pure light of the sky