Boughs slip to meandering streams, creasing his heart
Beneath winged cirrus, through veins and branches, reaching
The wind, tearing wing and reddened ripe season apart
Revealing seeds in the frigid earth lying in soil sleeping
Roots stretch marrow to a longing whose shallow defenses
Fall lonesome cold , leafless dances, numbing his hands,
making every frozen night call down his senses. He
Stands in lonesome darkness wondering if spring is coming
Desire, the moist fertile rain of men, fighting flesh
And it’s reach for the arms of Selfless summer skies,
Running streams of warm love, the tenderness of breasts
Is there ever seasons filled with summers warm eyes?
Finally in each bloom she comes, wind tossed leaves
Shaded by silhouettes, and dreams that all of us believe.
Ron Kempton 1/10/18