Your heart grows in Spring’s bleak night;
Cringing somber whirlpools begin to coo,
Like a bird to its mate in the evenlight,
From his “beautiful brown eyes” that now woo,
Down from your ceiling’s untouched bright.
An empty living room in your life will loom,
Where he worshiped you, kissing all that he saw –
Praying to dine with you in ecstasy’s room,
So you and he could find the beauty of the raw;
The mystique in “his lips,” a heartbeat’s womb.
But your force majeure was a feline tragic
And as you read these words you’re touched again,
By the weapon of he, so ignited by your magic.
So plant this, lovely, in a vase of his pain,
Showered from the one still hurting for you, sick.
