February And Beyond

Cusp

You do not have to say your love’s in vain;
horror of monogamous abandonment,
hollow despair in lungs of pleading pain.
endless torture of twisted bereavement.

You are cured, juniper your smoke-flavour,
dried in the hot sun, salted with many tears
scrubbed by this wind’s icy, daffodil snow.
It’s her love’s all in vain, if she would know.

Though she never thought to catch futility,
it is the blight she brings upon her head;
as out of love she forces you to be,
to waver on your feet, yet off to tread;

she needs must now call out to love again,
or write a new name on the falling rain.

..