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Written on a day in December, 2020

I find myself tethered to the way that you bloom
with your unfurled vines and carefree glimmer in the face of the banal day
no sooner would I blink my weary, clouded gaze
but to carve my path in one often trodden seems an unholy and bitter exploit
to fall to sleep and boldly miss the flick of a finger, feather-light pirouette
betrays the cadence of my profound and thankless worship,
because we did not or even mutualistically exist
on the contrary, the promise of agelessness and little else could make an expression so picturesque as this
and, with the breathless whisper of the sweet avian
who takes reprieve in the wind's ardent caress,
my spirit implores me to falter.