For C. Boarding a Plane

I wrote this when you were about to board the plane
We never get to say what really goes on in our heads
I saw through the window the still frozen pond and nature
Does not explain us, does not describe us, just a refrain
Of struggle and beauty if you want, the brown brittle
Leaves contrast in the Breugel landscape that leads
One to associations and dimensions, away from love
I suppose, what comparisons can I draw from the overcast
Sky, except the sadness, the lack of you, and some inane
Simile like something you will surely disprove of, like
The preposition ending a line, I would replace the name
Breugel, as it is very W.H. Auden, with that of a text
Book illustrator, the one who did the Ancient Britons
As they made their way through snow, I feel little
Can be written to express how much I miss you now
As when you were about to board the plane
Instead I in makeshift rhetoric, tend to borrow
From others images and thoughts, scared to lease
My love to a page, to a readership, in hyperbole
I take the seasons and march them to my orders
Winter worries over you, it has begun to melt
And the sun is on the horizon, towards an equinox
Of meetings in cafes and conversations about this
And that, in the trees the green has begun to ease
Its way through the darkness, however that is later,
For this moment, the blackbird sings out of kilter
With the cold reality of a few more days in Limbo.