I crawl these subtle laden rows, searching each illusive
bough, for you: Traces of Autumn, benevolent sweet,
at feet,that toxic dream of grass held warmth, a canvass
blush of pink, and brush of breeze, confetti.
The season swims to next, idolatrous branches weave
my smile to sky as summer crowds the April ire,
obsidian pips break free and loose
in pliable fingers picking treat at grasping juice.
My ardent shade is creeping blue, I wait for you
to share this growth of oval fruit,
my mouth upon that turning thought, and you
fall through my linen stare, dereliction blind
and soaked in dew.
S-G-K
