Here ends the first true love-dawn
I've known in my winter of snow.
The white, once melted under love's rays,
slushes brown and freezes as it suffocates
the flower's future blaze.
Petaled colored cries have no advocates
in this derelict aseptic land.
Instead of dancing scattered light,
I gaze upon a viscous memory-shape;
clouded by the blizzard's blight,
crushed under time's bloated freight.
Frozen fingers wait in resignation,
while shoveling encrusted snow
abreast his tombstone's commendation.
Ah! the waiting for spring's deliquesce,
like buttered bread,
to enter from the unknown West.
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