Half-dreaming—
of the unending turning of all things
Summer has been slipping away
taking my solidity with it
What warmth and the caress of her I had
is stolen, in the turning of the axis
Desire—the fire, lit by each penultimate season
And extinguished at the end of it
Everything I am is toppled again and again
in the unabating change of time
Once the affection of her heart
the next, lost in the decay of autumn
I am perfected—for me, for her—
but crumble and desiccate at the end of summer
The cycle is unbearable
The wheel—the clock, revolves, as it always has
As it has since the first flutter of butterflies
since the surety of what she means to me was realized
***
The seasons are a paradox: They are at once the harbingers of that which is new and nascent; and that which never changes, never dissipates.
M.M.
M.M.
