Old themes are not necessarily tired ones. We always seem to want to to read of love and spring.

Symphony in Bee

 

Ah, the drum and drone,

flap and flutter,

hum de-dum-dum

as low-waxing cello springs

to life – a sonata, amid marigolds,

wild roses, peonies of pallid pink.

Violins provoke woodwinds; bassoon perhaps,

or oboe, and a symphonic frenzy,

a sort of buzzing,

turns crescendo,

the depth realized.

 

Thirst

 

Besotted by your

eyes, mouth, com –

passion; your amorous affect.

You

scorch my soul, enliven

my spirit to speak

again of love,

accept

pleasure from its

victorious embrace.

So it is

that

I drink you in,

not easily quenched.

 

 

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