if e’er the time
of compromise
or choice
I couldn’t make
to cut into the petal
for the robin’s sake

as pardon for the mayfly
a summer more
in sleep
gathered not to locust
seven deep

tis not my way
for choosing
the perfume o’er
the fin
feathers – which to fly
and which to swoon

glories seem to find a way
when all the rest
have died
to fashion of a web
tho not of gloom

were one to break
I surely would
for grief of places gone
as Friday
mourns the Monday
all week long

as fields
denied the flower
remember her always
purple dress
and swaying with the breeze

consequence
of letting go
the universe allows
but who shall know
of choices
I am none

were e’er the time
be written
for one more breath or bud
take of me
and let the seeds
burst red with love
divine

. . .