You recall how winter
colored your love, left it
overly delicate, like a flower
skimmed of all fragrance.
You hear in the long last notes
of the nightingale's song
how to harbor what's left
of joy, how spring clutches
the green shoot of life and holds
on and on through summer, prepares
for no end that is sure in coming,
the fall ever endlessly repeating.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas