In the autumn months,
when the wind strips bare the tree
and a frost bites hard into the ground,
 
I reach to my right quite absentmindedly.
My hand grasping and searching
for yours to be found.
 
In these times I often wish
that I’ll once more have the privilege
To hold your hand in my own.
 
To guide you on a flight of stairs.
To lift you high,
or help you down.
 
To be reminded of your presence
by just one touch of innocuous relevance.
To intertwine fingers like lace thread.
 
Like a squirrel in its burrow,
My hand does rest.
While I hold you close, tight to my chest.