Swallow me in a hurling backlash
of ox-driven madness
pushing the dirt in my brain
to hearty crops of a
sun soaked heart.
But the frost has not yet subsided
"and your dear hands can not yet
pick flowers from this field"
so speaks the season.
The budding floral spectacle
soon will rise
side by side, I wish,
among my dutiful fields.
I lay in patience and in good comfort
under the leafless tree
the page-full notebook
the touched pillow,
ready to breathe deep
the melodious aria
penned by springtime
wherein you will arise
from the tremolo of March,
as a bursting chrysanthemum.
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