we meet at the Peartree; Saturdays' mourning.
bluebell clusters and pink blossom rain
lead the way.

she brings white lilies that pass by each week;
I ache for carnations
yet to flower.

Revelry in talk, she's accustom to overcome
this pause. lips turned up
hide her angst.

Seperated before I can raise her spirit. I pray for
confirmation they're mistaken.
love doesn't expire?

I am stone-chilled, with words engraved on a
muted tongue. longing for her
to join me.