Mistaken for Spring

( a non-rhyming Quatern )


She isn’t just a scent upon the breeze,
To birds that find a branch to perch the night
That hides the fruit they covet as they taste,
To cats upon the fence before they spar.

Mistaken for the wet of dewy rose;
She isn’t just a scent upon the breeze.
Is feeling yesterday of stone & earth,
As fog that slowly creeps in from the sea.

Who makes a man to quiver in his bed
Before he’s had the time to fall asleep.
She isn’t just a scent upon the breeze,
Nor raindrops sliding down a window pane.

Her flowing hair that rustles like the leaves
And glows diaphanous between the lights,
It’s all of Nature seems to feel her throb.
She isn’t just a scent upon the breeze.