My Verse Of Ice

So much beauty bends my branch,

these words of leaves
to feather spring
in so much more than expectation.

Wind blows wild
so rain might wither early gold
in bone to shiver soul,
away from winter,

when dust did curl in whiter flowers
sent to cover imperfection,

craving sun in new direction
to save me from my unimportance.


Then summer came,

in warm to will my waiting wings
to spread in air
and rise much higher,

feathers blowing sound to soothe
when evening blush
brought her to listen.

I spoke in verse like every poet,
spilling stream in word of green to ripple
what is love in wetter dialect,
as universal ache to touch creation
in blue clouds growing faith to fondle.

And she did look through sphere in awe,
as stroke rose bump to tingle time,

infinite with sigh
to breathe within
until her lungs were full of heaven;


when Autumn flamed,

her brush so wild to brush the breeze
in noting neverland as moment,

these exhaled hymns of finding self
inside the growing urge for earth.


Rain did fall,

sending what was brilliant blaze
to duller dream of fading arms,

soul regressing into hibernation
away from lips and craving comfort
in darker corners of wooden walls
to dance in oaken waves of winter,

while window etches wall to flower,

my verse in ice
about my roof,
growing older,

colder fingers.