I tasted Spring on your lips
damp new grass, early mist rising,
the last snow melting away.
I felt Summer’s sun on your face,
hot beneath my palms on your cheek.
You told me once—quite seriously—
that I should not say your skin was soft,
that softness was feminine,
and men were meant to be rough, strong—
not soft.
Not sweet strawberries melting on the tongue
in the summer sun,
but beer and spice.
Yet you
you were the blessing of Spring’s first bloom,
the whispered promise of returning light.
You were that moment of pure delight,
when a new taste bursts into life,
a never-repeated shock
of recognition.
You
wrapped up in all love,
coming home at last love,
safe from winter’s cold love.
You
gentle as new Spring,
strong as sun,
sweeter than one
who could be held long on this Earth.
Soon enough, I’ll steal Autumn,
tumble into encroaching darkness,
ride the wind again into snow
But today
the scent of new moss and pine needles,
the breath of Spring newborning
will take me back to you.
And my heart will sing joy,
echoing down through time.
You,
you,
You.