Love Revised

As skies flourish with the waxing storm on waning moon, a sweet languor rises in my chest, warms the gullet bereft of hot breath in the presence of you. These poems are graspings at May footsteps in trodden grass, commitments to change in a lunar sense: the burgeoning and sloughing off of tentative silences. What holds you to what you see of me are those graspings alone. I like to find pleasures not found at once, but hidden within something of another nature. Like icicles dusted with sugary new powder, or the smooth sharp spruce needle budding from resinous sap, we, too, belied our design-- or merely sought to be synergy incarnate.