Fine Silver Dust Remaining From Winter

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?