Seasoned

Your heart was done, mine a quiver  
where there we ran, in Autumn leaf,  
and you were blind, I a dither,
I caught your eye, you caught my sleeve.  
 
Upon a tree, my head softly rested,  
your hands in hair despite the breeze,  
those cold fingers, tender tested -  
how close was close, not just to tease.  
 
How long we've wandered what it meant  
to bend the spirit out for light,  
to go on yearning when you're spent,  
sink unsatisfied, into that good night  
 
between our skulls we hum for spring,  
a virginal bud, one innocent thing.