These Leaves

These lurid wounds, these leaves, confirm the rumors
Of the lady's fading health. The earth is soon to die,
To be laid out beneath a shroud of white, and that's
All right with me. I'm in the mood for mourning
As my love has flown away again. Some long, cold
Months will pass, I fear, before our sleeping lady stirs,
Before her eyelids start to flicker, and the barest
Breath of warmth is felt, and my love tells me
There may be a chance that we can meet again.
The lady's wounds, though green, will heal.
Less-than-certain speculation that that other
Lady, who has such a fearsome hold on me,
Will, at last, move within reach is apt to lead one
Hapless codger to collapse into a crouch
To see if he can spring.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 38 times
Written on 2018-10-27 at 00:57

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