White phlox and white hydrangeas,
High, thin clouds,
A low, warm sun.
So it is this afternoon,
But the phlox will be a drift of petals,
And the hydrangeas stained and fallen
Before you come again.
I cannot look at the flowers,
Nor the lifting leaves of the trees.
Without you, there is no garden,
No bright colours,
No shining leaves.
There is only space, 
Stretching endlessly forward - 
And I walk, bent, unseeing,
Waiting to catch the first faint scuffle
Of withered leaves.