Goddess of Spring

Weave flowers through your hair

while we sit in the garden.

To be alone with you,

not touching, never touching,

is a sublime torture,

an exercise in self-denial and gratification,

a thin line, a tightrope I walk on

high above the clouds.

They will not catch me if I fall.


My fingers itch with the desire

to pick flowers for you,

but if I pluck them they will die,

as fragile as this moment.

I do not reach. I do not speak.


I try to commit this dream to memory;

the click of the shutter echoing in my mind. 

You surrounded by life

far more beautiful than the

blossoms at your feet, in your hair, your hands, your lungs.

The picture of life itself,

the embodiment of the passage of time.


The flowers are plenty, but you take up more space.

In my heart, my words, you will live in

this garden forever, ensconced in the

Spring sunlight for eternity.

Your golden skin warm, glowing,

your lips pink as the petals

raining from your artful hands,

your eyes as rich and brown

as the cultivating soil,

your laughter bubbling from your lips

like an effervescent spring;

I could drown in your laughter.


The flowers will be plucked.

They will wither and die,

but the image of you in this garden,

flowers in your hair, your hands, your lungs,

is immortalized in this poem,

my tribute to you, Goddess of Spring.

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