Two graces
you burn through.
All with the hunger for summer,
and with the eyes. The eyes
that see the sun as another tear.
Have patience.
We will see the sun
before it sets
to the empty page
remaining frozen in your heart.
Was summer the other autumn,
or the winter without the clovers?
Was it the bright sight,
or the luck without the draw
of cards that never folded,
until we came close –
because I burn the roses free
into a different degree of love?
All because of a miserable temperature
counted beneath, instead of above?
The slender fingers.
These typed pages.
Winter can come with fire,
with our warmth in a lifetime of arms
wrapped in where we can be.
Modern Romanticism 