Upon this swing
Within a whim,
And the barb
Where we once
Would play along.
When we fall
From heavens rhyme,
These dizzy frames,
We find some way
To be the same.
I saw the amber fields this autumn
Where verdant they had blossomed.
They grew until their time was done
And glistened gold into the sun.
What of your wine have I taken,
If never I your stem have shaken?
I’d wait till you’d for reasons sway,
Be it even … angrily,
And drops traced your petaled lip,
Leaving little to let one sip.
What is the purest scent?
When a warm breeze divorces
Itself from the spring canopy,
Upon it sails the parfum of a flower
That is the shape of my soul.