It's spring.
Virgin leaves
and columns of green,
Honey, pollen, a
great sweet comb,
Bubbling blue
waters and my renewed hope.
It's spring.
And, giving in
to instinct's call,
My feet run free
with Pan's wild troupe,
Over hills and
crags and Proserpine's stoop.
It's spring.
My heart too
strays, but soundlessly,
Till it comes
across hemlock wines.
And my lover's
taste and her distant cry.
It's spring.
The pace slow,
to allow me breath,
Matching that of
my heart gone white.
It's spring, I
say.
And I long for
the winter moon's dim light.