poetry

winterwhile

An ache the late season achieves.

Whims are as fallen leaves
Bundling the autumn leas
Of primrose plots
Flecked with forget-me-nots—
A patchwork the late season weaves.

Hopes are the retreating trees
That dare gamble their leaves
On some morrow mused
As the past is excused—
A turn the late season decrees.

Moreover, love is the breeze
Pruning them bare, these trees,
To promise them spring,
To prepare for the sting—
Just before the late season freeze.

Yet, what of these eves
That my winterwhile reaves?
As all warmth I miss
With yearning avarice—
An ache the late season achieves.


 

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