Sunday, March 8, 2020

Andrea to Proserpine

Our poems amid stars exchange their codes
 And send to my soul the seeds of new odes.
 So I read up my Keats as you hone your Plath
And hope someday for a crossing in our path
Where free from the shackles of history and age
 I, in your eyes, may turn a new page
And write new lines of an autumnal hymn
To heal those wounds so deep and grim.

Meanwhile my lips a parched spring endure
 As I hanker, a fool, in silence, unsure.