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
No comments:
Post a Comment