His heart aches at the loss of summer

How my heart aches at the loss of summer,

and at the loss of day-sight and night life;

clouds now colored (like the leaves),

sharp and contrast to my breath;

and how the angles of shadows ,

shift farther than the growth of the grass.

 

There is no more flight,

of the finches against steel blue skies;

and the eloquent and exquisite swan,

has not a soft pond in which to land.

 

Less,

are the evening games of hiding and seeking.

Less,

the precursor to rainstorms from the south.

Less,

the dancing in garden-sprays and the frolicking in sun-drenched days.

Less,

green trails and erected sails in the sound and in the bay.

 

And absent,

is the tin sound of the whistle,

from the wagon stocked

with waffle-coned cream delectables,

(So silent is the children).

 

And quiet

is the beaches;

the sound of the sand deaf

to the fisherman's wharf,

the echoes of the gulls' cry

reaches vacant ears.

 

How my heart aches to the loss of summer;

and how it freezes its palpable beat,

to the stiff drone of the winter so nigh.

How my heart aches with the aching of my bones,

like the slow death of brittle bark, broken off the bitter trees.

And the cracking of my skin,

sees piles of dead leaves;

gathered 'round stacks of kindling,

frozen under the eaves.

 

Oh how my heart does bleed,

when my hands grow cold;

numb and bloodless,

to the frigids' unfold.

Dull and numb and weak,

the blade of the ax may fall;

and the fuel to fight winters' bite,

becomes less than my soul can cleave.

Oh how my heart bleeds.

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[zogzog]

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