It seems I was born to count winters. My years are scored by falling leaves. Decembers like decimals of icy splinters. To fields of corn the remainder cleaves. I’ve measured time by love’s equation. With sticks of chalk reduced to fingers. Mindful of each numbers station, But still the remainder lingers. Where is my beloved puzzle? Gone is my most cherished theme. No sylvan flame near which to nuzzle. Lost am I in Autumn’s dream.