would fever claim
the month of March –
or swear an oath
as April sweats
in summer blush
to leave the dreamer
. . .
hope was born on a windy day
at two p.m.
your sudden smile
illuminated the fog
of my ailing soul
heartache was an ever darkening bruise
that starlight could never heal…
your words still try to work miracles
but you disappear as often
as moonlight on a stormy night
and through the ebb and tide of my need
you ride the waves of my salvation
like a pirate
caught between lust for rich horizons
and a part-time philosopher
in love with ideals
. . .
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