Zephyrus buttons his coat of dew
and all the morning is in song-
spring captured on an autumnal wind,
sending sweet conundrums to condense
on rosebud lips. The flowers awaken
in yellow sunrises and spots of maiden’s blood
you and your lover walk
through fields of angel down, puffs
of cotton catch in the briars
like secrets spun in ivory.
You guess at what words pass
between a doe and a callous brook
whose waters run near dry,
denying as the grasses’ frost.
Does she yearn for days of yore,
when rivers ran fat like butter,
and the sun drifted like a paramore
across a china sky?
In this calamity of seasons,
the labyrinth of the forest beckons
like Snow White’s queen disguised,
her shawl heavy on the bower of trees.
Your lover will not enter
so you part, a lantern at hand.
Broken things crawl forth from
root sepulchres, eroded away
as winter leaves us all bare-
the doe of bare bones dances-
breath fogs, time slows
in this country of ghosts-
the roses sleep.
You are left with torn lace and liquor
the color of daguerreotype dreams
alone in the bosom of the woods
you cast promises to the stream.