may I ask what shaped your love
of fragile, bitter, true,
can I tell which wrong is right,
I often think of you.

abysmal, blunt, imperishable
moderate to none,
may I ask who carved your love
from segments of the sun.

that slight touch of tenderness
softens beyond the blue
glistening tears of gentleness
my kind regards to you.

spring blossoms into summer,
and summer falls to rust, and
the only Thing I know and love,
has left in cardboard dust.