I see your eyes in the birth of spring,
the ivy lurking in the shadows,
in the glasses of wine I have sipped to try and forget;
that grapes descended from vines
I could have pulled from your irises;
the same vines I pulled and tried to swing to sanctuary,
it was all an illusion
just as
the way the flowers and willow trees firmly secured in the earth,
have swayed me to believe
the verdant tint of your existence,
the capsule of your being,
is something which should be envied.