Nicole Vacherot|
Poet
Spring finds me no haven in your heart
To shelter from this little paschal death
Of our vintage winters; what imparts?
Naught, justly this: Our loves last breath
While its most bitter when heard in clef
Together in cups sung with pique regret
With split nomadic tears of my bereft
Alas! There is no bud to this duet...
My heart is not as flimsy as forget
And the Spring is all folly in its fleet
It is but a lark before Summer's set
A bucolic feast; where all depletes
I beneath the sun; astride the rains
I wait on summer when all refrains