I have on warm days
poured my thoughts into buttercups,
and on warm days you have sipped
that potent nectar, and drummed
a dew beat on the pensive spray.

But I am shaken now:
there is silence when I think aloud,
and my thoughts are only words
that will not settle, only swirl.

And while the weekly winters
grow old upon your lips,
I'm still waiting - but what for?
your name's no beacon by a broken shore,
no cadence for an angel choir,
no jade, no pearl, no myrtle bird,
no damp daybreak along my collar,
a word, a word, a word,
and nothing more.

In the evening chill I think,
jawing, flirting with a name -
I recall how in the heat I used to feel,
and swirl around the man within -
but now the frost is waking on my skin
its cold sighs breathed in by every pore:
between our lips spill only words,
only words and nothing more.