Autumn Leaves

The call I feared came like the cold, reaching fingers of winter in November,
and I set out for Central Park.
Like the woman I was meeting, the trees' leaves were fading from life, soon to die.
The seeds of death were blooming inside her in a perversion of spring.
The invisible tumors inside her were like a match dropped in the dry forest of her body.
I saw her there, waiting on a bench, as pale as the coming snows.
We embraced, and though she looked like ice, she was as warm as summer, separating her from that frigid day.
To believe she was soon to die was to believe the sun would suddenly stop shining.
I tried in vain to comfort her, but the tears, cold as autumn rain, still flowed down her rosy cheeks.