What remains of winter is not merely the meager
Snow and hard stubborn ice that lingers,
But also the fine silver dust of crushed Spruce needles,
Whose odor reminds me of love, my love.
God knows we know we’ve got close
Too many times to know we can’t pull back,
Such damage to the heart of spring
Would freeze whatever thrill
Warming of spring love brings.
I would never have it,
Nor even the halving of it, the loss
In the heart, the mind, body and soul
Would be as watching dead black leaves
Floating down river, rotting so slowly
As daylight drains all life from blind eyes.
As I look out the window, my gaze
Becomes more and more upon gazing
At such thought of sad singularity,
With no need of you…. loveless
Heartbreaking would be the absence
Following winter with no spring,
No pussy willows, no yellow daffodils,
No red roses even in summer— how could I live?