They do not fall,

these hearts of glass, suspended

between frost and flame—

they ache for a hand that will

not come, or one waiting, still.

Faded zinnia—

a letter I meant to send,

rests in silence.

Each dawn you arrive,

persistent in grayscale light—

gone again by dusk,

still, you teach me love endures

not in time, but in return.

April in my heart—

a saxophone croons soft notes

through yesterday’s sky;

and though time carries me on,

your memory keeps its tune.

I know what love is—

like the moon pulling at tides

it will never hold.

Iris parts the rain—

a blade that does not sever,

yet guards the still heart.