Some other day,
I will write of the lovers in black and white
and the beauty of their bodies.
But not today.
Today I can only wish
That the lover was me.
Tomorrow holds no promise
Every day will be just like today
Today was like all the yesterdays I have survived.
Morning dawns
In birdsong
That stings on my ear
Recurring, recurring, and repeat
It doesn’t let me sleep.
Flowers don’t grow on my grave
But I don’t mind.
I was never a Spring child.