It Will Be September Soon

It was in winter, last year,
the fog sagged over the campus,
we walked through the soundless grove,
nothing remained visible except you.

You, my friend, looked at me through the mist,
which has now passed and given way to the sun and sky.
We left the grove and walked out across a field,
our sneakers muddy in the dewy grass.

I must admit I cannot see myself in myself.
I could not seek the sky, it was not there.
Were I to build wings and fly above the motionless brume
I would not see any more than what it was I left.

You have been gone for a long time,
and everytime I remember your voice's soft, echoless pitch,
the smell of dead eucalptus leaves and anise caught in the air,
the roar of the bus in which I watched you leave that morning,

I fall back into the season that creeps in
like the early fog that leaves, but looks back.
If I could not see you still, I would never be able to see
that I can see today.