Where we aged

I let you go  
to stand amongst beechs,  
bone-gold phalanx, shades of you,  
again, joy rests
in the warbling line,  
a tumbled mat  
against fieldrows —  
the communion  
of companionship,  
this separation — still burning  
gives new colour to snowdrops,
ones that find spaces in me

as if an afterthought:  
each individual  
quietly collapsing,  
white spires  
mirages of Summer,  
swing beneath fine forearms.  
I return  
to that lover’s end,  
those thick vines of unknowing  
spaced out,  
bury my thoughts in the mole mounds:  
'tween bracket fungi, by the stamen

in too early daffodils,
brazen and heavy
as if the shade of left thigh —

hue of a bruise,    
it stings this sculptured earth,
whistles a tune of Springtime.

I return to that forgotten path,  
alone, to clod and mossen ground —    
as if it would restore something in me,

each fur-innard mast,
a shell left by the ghost
of a season that we shared.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0 reading list entries 0
comments 0 reads 124
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 2:16pm by robert43041
Today 11:32am by Abracadabra
Today 9:33am by Grace
Today 6:49am by ajay