I swear, I swear
the diamonds around her neck
cannot compare
to the flowers in her hair.

We stare above,
Fail to wake up and smell
the roses when love
is no longer in the air.

She has her thorns
and I accept them all.
Met her in spring,
but she's leaving in fall.

Changing seasons are the
efflorescence of her pain.
Sunshine in a bottle;
she stores away the rain.*

- (A.F)