Always verdant you
are a March wildflower...

Swiftly into haunting days
Recklessly I craving ride...

How blissful the thundering tempest
When in morn's decay at last it be...

You come to me in the early morning darkness,
A shadowed curve of movement, intent, sensation...

Though clouds dirge black
and talons rake the green to frosty white...

I taste the hunger
in her eyes...

No skin of silk,
No atar of rose...

Spin a little,
stumble...

She calls my name,
(no! whispers...

Against the moon
No assassin's blade could strike so deep...

This keep lies hushed in the early morning
Creaks of shutter from seaborne breeze...

Not caress, nor
nudge, nor even tap...