The late April breeze is talkative at night,
while on her draft,
she carries the echo of sweetened thunder
through the leaves of a
lonely tree
beside a glowing window.
She smells of heaven's tears
and budding blossoms.
Tomorrow, with the waking sun,
she'll offer dew drops
as her parting gifts,
as she slips her heels across the window sill
and under the wings of a
fledgling swallow,
caressing and commencing his couthie concert
while the sun rubs the sleep
from his eyes.
She'll leave in the silence of
dawn's first few moments,
self conscious of any gaze
and careful not to stir
one precious petal.
Pondering why she thinks herself
so sly, I will feign sleep
with one eye locked on the
golden locks disappearing over the window sill.

Does that book still burn on your shelf?
Or have you stuffed it under your bed,
its pages torn, still smelling of cigarette smoke
with a few coffee stains.
(Mine rests next to Tolkien).

Do you flip through it once in a while?
Noting the words you marked,
once full of meaning.
Are they empty now?
(I found empty words in my copy).

Do you take care to avoid
the covert letter under the jacket flap?
Or maybe read it, and wonder
(I regret writing it.)

Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to the Earth to claim
that which belonged to her,
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.

"Away," whisper the clovers
as he tramps about,
and wresting the rusted blade
from its slumber,
turned and cut the Stag's throat,
while Artemis looked on,
disgusted.

Sanguine silver painted marigolds
and mums now shamefully stained
on ruined earth,
with naught but a rusted shard returned
while willows wept.

Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to Earth, to claim
that which belonged to her
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.