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.