August, I start from one,
The door sounds against the tiles,
You start to leave your undenying presence
Stuck onto the frontlets of my thoughts.

Two, words were spoken few,
But a few human errors & one simple word
You correct my interpretation,
& now you start to interpretate my life.

Three, a fortnight has passed,
My heart embraces to your name,
But soon we will be set apart,
Now to cherish our last days.

Four, the end of August comes our end,
As the door sounds against the tiles again.
But now without you,
Without any interpretation or name.

Five, it's December now.
I'll be waiting & counting down to ten,
Until you come back,
& the door sounds once again.

From, the girl at the smallest corner of your memory.

The poplar tree blooms no more,
The magpie sings no new songs,
Yet I cling onto the restless years,
When you, my dear, were still here.

Remember the wind that took your hat,
And a gentleman I was retrieving it back?
Our eyes destined for the first time,
& now I long so for that beautiful eyes.

Merry it was our days in your kitchen!
Pots and pans we sang & dance!
Our feet tangled not on the carpet of red,
Our hands twine like a morning glory on a fence.

Such days are but a memory,
As I live to sit on the chair alone,
Remember not the day of  judgement,
For my heart aches and sores for you.

My dear, how long should I wait,
Wait for another meeting of our fate,
The piano has no fingers to await,
For the only fingers to await was you.

Winter comes soundlessly still,
As your hands appeared in mine.
I smiled and forklift my cane,
& now the chair is left alone.

*"Olivia, is that you?"

I glanced at the first rose of winter,
Blighted & withered by the cold,
Her blood red & stained onto the pages
Of my very first winter poem.

Across the white grounds stood a man,
Old & shivering like erosive sand,
His rake taking back the souls of nature,
Leaving still the branches bare.

But bare not much like the book on my lap,
Its skin & tissues as bare as a single hair,
The wind gushes & hushes & swips
Turning the pages alive and well.

I desire to press the ink onto the page,
And yet empty it is without a word,
For after the rose choked & blighted,
My first poem was stolen & gone.

By the wind, and into the sky,
Into the soul I've longed to recall,
Words were not enough for a poem,
For poem was not words but a person of a soul I desire.

My hands are of wrinkles
Worn out by the passing of time
And yet dearly cherishing on my palms
A small pendant silver & bright

Wear it not around my neck
For my poor eyes see not
But leave it brushing on my hands
For be it a gift from God

Like a Jackdaw
you threw freedom away
And stood on the windowsill
Eyes resting off the lane

The pendant such beautiful gift
A shining star falling from above
And yet lay still in the hands of another
The truth a Jackdaw would not want

The universe plays a winter song
A soprana, tenor, bass & alto,
You lift your wings & slowly left
Scared to be called a thief of a pendant, a desire that was no fate of yours.

It was an ephemeral moment
As stars swam gently above the still dark ocean
the night kisses the water in everlasting ripples
in mellifluous voices of whisper & echoes

It was an ephemeral moment
As the beautiful aurora ruled over time
She wore silks of scarlet, red & blue linen
that painted across the mountains & skies

It was an ephemeral moment
where shadows dance around the crackled bonfire
as natives tell of legends untold
within the midnight of dark and cold

It still is an ephemeral moment
if you believe them to be
the world is made just of defining moments
scraps and shattered reflections of you and me