, , , , , , ,

shall I tell you
of a springtime –
of yellows undefined
hidden meadows
weaved by muscadine
a story still becoming
you were here
and I was saved
held against the tender
where april
bled to may

shall I tell you
how I loved you –
how your want
filled every need
like a window
where my shadows
used to be
with ne’er a thought
to anything
would steal me from this light –
to sever
every memory
of spring

. . .