"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
Why is it that all my poems are made of love,
when you are not the land that holds me?
Nor are you the sun that warms me from above –
you are the cruel cold winter, a harsh dark sea.
You are a frost that curbs my warm-time growth,
a mean surprise that greets with pain.
Come back to me to break your oath
you seek me here, alone again.
Damaged now, I am where last
you left me calling out your name.
You, my agent of the past
who left me broken, cut and tame.
I dug and dug below dark ground,
while my flowers fell and mourned for you.
No longer queenly, no longer crowned
and screaming out – your debt is due!
Entombed, I lay in wait for spring,
the messenger of warmth to come.
The herald whom my crown would bring.
To release me from my shady tomb.
But back you come, just when the warm
begins to seep in – little deep.
Battering small buds in your bitter storm,
leaving me a weakened heap.
If I can get to summer months,
those arid days lit long with light.
And thinking only of my deepest wants
I think then perhaps, i’ll win the fight.