Sping and Gallows

Dedicated to artist N. It was the spring so frantic that even the ancient gallows at the city square spawned a green sprout. I read my poetry aloud to you, my first, my awkward and ecstatic poems that I penned last night to sing your abstract art, your cold and unresponsive heart, your gray-blue eyes and the prune sleet on my lone way home. Oh, how sweet you are, young rhymes! Years later I see that not fondness but those my first trials of pen resulted in my happiness, my gloom akin to deepest hell, my grace, my curse, my sleeplessness and this small verse. You married a long time ago, I sing of other beauties, though, in spring the memories about you still make ancient gallows sprout.