The ground bubbled  neath, February's  awakening
stoic crocuses stood water  deep,
so that capriciousness was revealed
The  fill *****  over flowed.
So  certain the path walked
she  wove aconites into  her  hair  
to unghost the prevailing snowdrops.
The  dogwood a resplendent beacon
vies to complete the cycle .

At the time as leaves nestled
a hushed acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Maraschino again.
His bloodstream reinvigorated
by these changes
eagerly suspending disbelief.

At the time the wind stood still
he found discarded keys
to an Autumnal hut
and  bounded opened its door
he felt the joy of those  sprouted aliums
Which he hurriedly planted in a drill

August is never  lost to Summer,
she shares in her sphere of circularity
Calendula's a by-word  for prolonging,
dead-heading vies with the flush.
Lunaria's prized seed pods' legacy's boon.
In redolent contemplation.
Autumn bulbs eagerly  secured.
Amongst them Colichicums a wondrous  shrub
for late September's  appearance.

Like a Stallion,  August's canter masquerades
the truest of challenges ,
for the final  hurdle.
By means of subtle suggestiveness
Russet subsumes the Red.
Blue musters a tired
muddying  Purple.
Yellow bleaches
as though touched
by the exertion of congruity

The  living windowsill  heaves in shyness
dappled moon flowers readily indolent,
Saint Joan alone shone in salient hope.
Ambient light peculiarly treads on others' footsteps,
as reticent prays find tearfulness enough
to make the Angels  cry,
egress only,
until we've drunk our Peace.

The lotus fields charge
misbegotten fortune,
your whisper on this cold night
steers towards the dark pavilion
the one you left for, three years ago.
I could never hail your return
weeping alone would bestow order,
a  long stare circles myriads of thoughts.

I am pausing just for the now
the passing Moon scoops its urgency,
plaiting  silver shadows
through my blinds.
Closing my eyes
thoughts of her,
are like re-arranging furniture
as if someone was walking upstairs.
I know she would have accepted me
because I offer no excuses.

Push and Punt
I wander where you are heading,
punching above your weight?
Sometimes resolvent
with a leathered face
where's the forgiveness?
like a two way mirror
it stretches  both ways,
culpability I hear you opine,
when you kick the germane tin can,
if you had known the source
of your ails,
you'd have less of the turbulence