Final Spring

the final spring is come my friend
and with its breath the winter’s end
more so than my eye’s last light
which will be cast no more on night
nor to a cold December’s morn
but instead awake to April’s dawn
that finds within its golden haze
memories lost to future days.

Tomorrow

remember the world
and how it was yesterday
before tomorrow

The Blossoms of Spring

her voice travelled upon the breeze
and landed as scattered blossoms
fine and silken upon my ears
in their gentle music
I heard springtime
and wept…
for winter was not done.

Landscapes

in dreams I can paint
golden landscapes of springtime
that we inhabit

The Secret Stream

there are faeries in this brook
who hold my desires under key
so when my pleasures float downstream
the thoughts which build them you can’t see
they keep them safe until the day
I reveal myself to thee
and hold their tongues on my behalf
while I debate what is to be
with each soft dream I dream of you
inner secrets I compel
to the wee folk in the stream
lock them away and do not tell.

End

and so we end
as disparate
separate
desperate
as we existed
one facile
and glib
pop cultural reference
at a time.

Late Snow

ghosts of the winter
floating down into springtime
lest we forget them

Last Frost

before the last frost
they sought to save the roses
yet the petals fell

Inking

I dream of a pen
inking us both in fine lines
entwined together

unfinished verse

give me leave your love to taste
as to the gods ambrosia
and in consuming each embrace
we will feed on our desires