I wished for meadows gold and green,
  for forests rich and sweet,
as autumn's chill crept up between
  the boards beneath my feet.

It seemed to me within your eyes
  there welled a wish like mine--
as if the gray November skies
  could cry a draught of wine.

Mechanically, he turned and stepped away.
Though there remained a symphony to say,
the audience was obviously tired.
The orchestra was weak and uninspired.
And so he wandered up the street, and down,
through all the dry vernacular of town.
A thousand trivialities he passed
until the sidewalk brought him home at last.
He summited the dim and creaking stair.
He sank into the thrift store easy chair,
closed his eyes, and waited for her face.
She smiled at him. Then darkness took her place.

This winter has been harsh and cold; these winds
have scoured the frosted fens for miles around.

I only hope, once the seeds have sprouted,
and long-kept zephyrs hum above the chapped and chastened earth,

that you might walk the woodlands by my side—

and make with me a new, glad spring.

I could not bear
another sighing sad spring.