Is it cold outside?
I’d perish if it was.
The Moon beams down
a light-encrusted frost
in mockery of the Sun.
Summer? Is it lost?
I’ll stay indoors
where August lingers still
for I do not have the will.



That bumble-bee
is meant for me;
he ricochets
off his delays.

He loads a rose –
right in he goes;
I rest and wait
and guess my fate.

A dream’s a fool
and earth is cruel;
the skylark folds;
the blackbird scolds.

The rose takes aim
to kill or maim –
he buzzes past –
my luck can’t last.