18 March 2021
my tormentor and my muse
how far does our contentment lie
a warm autumn's breath
or a crocus in the tundra
be still my heart
for love's final hour now
proves to be the dearest
how tender the sap
of irony's forked tongue
push wire cutters to the gate of Eden
to dine with Eve by moonlight
bitter memories avert your doleful gaze
this present does not the future hold
contrite in their longing do the
frostbitten grasses - in search of springtime -
usher forth the ides of march