I have held them tight

Although I know

Come the end of night

They must go

And I will be left,

Bereft

Thinking on butterflies

Who pass

And lust,

Fragile as glass.

 

I have heard the hours

Tick by

And grown old

In arms I can not hold.

But Spring flowers

Provide a temporary

Relief from cold.

 

 

I have sought

The flower’s heart

And fought

With the same

pleasure and pain

Over and over again.

 

In the end only art remains

For blooms must fade

And the poet leaves behind

Merely a rhyme

On ink stained page