The violin strings
Turned my fingers red…
Your music was a storm
on a flower bed.

I am
the slave of your seasons –
Are you my spring?
Am I blue and bold?
Are my snows melting?

Touch away my blues
To sweeter greens,
Let your soft summers
Drench my winter scenes.

In my battered soil
Is your flower bed –
For balms and herbs
I you raid.