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Poetry by Peter D. Orr
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A Tap on the Shoulder It's fall again and the spirit calls out across the spot where I first saw you; around the bend of steps littered leafy-brown a silent smile of acknowledgment still remains.
It's that time of year when my soul is played like a mourning oboe; a tune that lifts me up on the pathway, but which dashes me upon the same steps which my heart can never ascend.
The feel of fall... so empty without you (no falling in love). The sailing leafs... so purposeless without you.
Shall I go to that spot where your spirit haunts and touch the stones over which you once tread? Will I find one golden thread of your existence? Oh, Lord ... what I could have, would have, should have said!
I remember so well how the words of your heart were like the leafs on the trees, falling from your eyes so silently... Today, an oak-leaf gently came to rest upon my shoulder as I passed that spot. And it, as if an extension of a past time, reminded me of a day when I should have been bolder.
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