Under an autumn sky
a withered last leaf
cilngs to a branch
of my locust tree
just like I cling
to the images of
my beloved wife
who looks lovely
despite her age.
I can feel her touch,
hear her laughter,
and inhale her scent
before I feel asleep.
Her senses work
with a heart not
beating and legs
no longer dancing.
Imperfect as she
remains, I love her
still and always will.