Poem #72

To Marie…

Every year, love was
a winter bear
who saw luster
of despairing autumns.

Above a blank and latent snow
gestured an empty tree,
its spring buds hidden.

Love was not that cold.
Love was comfortable sleep
and the morning after it.

Marie, your eyes are the matrimony
of the Atlantic and the moon;
in their toned depths a Spanish ship sunk,
scattering coins a hue of gold.

April 2008

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