FORLORN NIGHTS OF SPRING

VII.

A mist lingers still
in this mind of mine;
in this sear shrubbery,
where blossom'd florets
of thoughts once so rosily.

In mother tongue wrote
fingertips mine
of seas and peonies,
which enfolded me
upon every rain;

And with a yowl cruelly,
the mist usurped me,
shunn'd the sweetness of fervor,
kiss'd my sea-soaked eyelids
where he saw the stars gleam.

I longed for a pit
surging with the sunless sea.
You-the mist sempiternal,
at last, soften my sorrow,
let me rest with peonies.

Silencing my singing voice,
he'd stripped me bare-
all skin, skin, and skin
until poetry came to light
and he fed me fruit.

I wrote, and I write on
not out of love,
but of intimacy
unspoken, aflame
like our wine cheeks.