I am unlike a raindrop
heavy with lament,
producing ponds
of unholy birth.
You are unlike any season
for when compared to my
strengths and weaknesses
of my mind, there remains
no absolute description.
I am unlike the sun;
I do not search out warmth
yet I find it in nightly folly,
a strange sense that levitates
over to my eyes.
You are unlike any word
and my heart still manages
to construe thousands
of wish-you-wells.
I have written a conclusion:
You are the beginning of winter,
I am part of the end.
So you see we are remnants of
both ends of the world,
building back shoveled love
until time allows us to run.
