seasons of the heart

So tied to these tasks, that I must ask
memory to recall the brilliance of summer moon
and August night;  so faraway now
the smell of sweet summer vines is on my lips
but no longer hidden sugar under my tongue

The end of the string has not been seen.
It is a journey of faith that travels the lines
of a small page; flat and depth-less like
the green leaf, that holds within itself
a more beautiful set of skin and bones.

Seen as the common sense of day that yet hides
the boundless beauty of each moment
that breath can create a whisper, and
the wants of a lifetime come fulfilled
by the substance of the shadow.
Into the broken silence from a creaking floor
or whoosh of a closing door, when thoughts leap
from anticipation to delight.

It is the silent miracle of a river's flow
 that it has learned to resemble
the slow  seasons of the heart,  found
as your eyes capture the arc of my hopes
among the fall of  summer stars.





________________________________________
Inspired by: Lxxxiv From: ‘cien Sonetos De Amor’ - Poem by Pablo Neruda