Thirst is strange and tragic death,
Waiting for it to fall,
The delicate spring bloom,
In your kiss,
As petals undo their
Meandering,
In puddles.
Only to be washed helpless-
Spun and pulled under,
In a smile,
That does not know
The reason,
Is so the peaches and honeysuckle may sing,
And rivers may return to rain.
Just as kings pass the mantle
To their offspring,
I pass my heart,
To your pomegranate and pearl
Fingers,
Be gentle for it is the last of its kind.
Treasure it darling,
For so many others to its value,
Have been cold,  cruel and blind.