Cycles
Every time he loves
Flowers travail
From courtship to marriage
He leaves a trail
Of dead blossoms.
Every I go to war
Flowers and children wail
Where bombs fall from magma rain
From seared and blownout foxholes
There is a dead trail
Of flowers on bumps of graves
Every time we make love
Flowering you
I die to become a spat of blood
Emotions slithering back
To the crinkled autumn tree
With the dead bud of spring.
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