Seasons
He smells the passion and perfume,
the mild and manic moments
of a young love.
Here comes a ragged flight of crows;
he squints in the cold sunlight.
Blue shadows glimmer and glint.
He has a lover in mind;
a dead one,
the crows carry her memory to him.
The aroma of deep red wine,
silk stockings discarded
yet still writhing and tangling.
The clumsy sincerity
of sexual pantomimes,
Tipsy lipreading's of arousal
utter their naked words,
glimmers sculpture
tantric passions into recollection.
He wonders
did any of this change -
the girl, the crows, the tidal musk,
the surfacing ebb and flow
the sense of it all?
Autumnal flares
restore a late warmth
to cooling images.
The long-lived
out run their dreams.
Ardor awakens once more
between scarlet lips.
It's a kindred, half-living
kind of being.
The seasoned
shelter such memories
under concealing crows feet,
or beneath
chameleon-lidded eyes.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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