POETRY PAGE FOUR
COLUMN FORTY-FIVE, MAY 1, 1999
(Copyright © 1999 Al Aronowitz)
Last April I remembered flowers,
And his profile as soft as any rose.
In June , I weighed his fickle powers
He comes, he stays, he goes.
July, of course, was dry and hot.
What snow, what ice, what cold?
Long days, short nights, why I forgot
That everyone who lives grows old.
October was a month for vintage wine,
And crisp reflections framed in blue.
Pendant fruits on bough and vine
Were pregnant with a multiplying dew.
December, dear, is what I now survey,
With snow collected on the windowsill.
I pause, to sip alone café-au-lait,
And wish him well down in Brazil.
A year has turned his love from me,
And called away the robin and the bee,
But after all, we live and learn
There is both heartache and heartburn. ##
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