The Passing Seasons

The Passing Seasons

I had loved her too long, and by this time she and I—were we.
And I had loved her before my lips knew speech; yet they knew the sweet of her kiss.
Long before my eyes had tasted color, they could imagine the glint of emerald in her eyes.
Loved her before my ears felt the faithful beat of the womb, but they did know the soft call of her voice.
Love ancient like the rivers, it coursed and cut the land before this form was molded from the clay and earth.
Before my heart was my own—it was hers.

But I had loved her too long, too long now, for she and I—not to be we.
And my love became a wistful longing, and I drowned in its melancholy, waiting.
Gone away, she did bid my lips to starve of her.
To find myself deaf, and sent to hunger for the warmth of her breath.
Blind and made to wander in her absence.
Gone now, I must miss you like the passing seasons, as the flower must miss the sun amongst the snow of winter.

You are my day, and I must miss you in the night.