Devon

Crisp winter red rose; moistened by snowflake; The frosted grass on a winter morning; A moonlit sky with sweet stars adorning; And Autumn trees, held alive by the rake. Two sweet, old lovers, sat on a park bench; Sat hand in hand for sixty-something years; Loving still, through heartbreak; turmoil and tears; The sorrow never weakening that clench. The words on a page, winding and weaving; Attacking our minds and breaking our hearts; Molesting our senses like sharpened darts; And disproving "seeing is believing". Though none of these are aware of their bliss; Nor have knowledge why they are beautiful; Just like you they make me feel dutiful; To hold and to love; to kiss and to miss.