In rose’s palm, supine and hid away,
I lie and breathe in one last perfect day.
Sweet dreams of Summer’s arm around me bind
me whole to August’s fleeting summer sounds—
the panting cricket’s frantic melody
o’er played by locust’s heaving rhapsody—
when came September’s hush to frost them all.
But leave me, fall’s still blush, in petal hall
to pine, perchance to sleep the winter through
with Faerie Queen in petal folds, we two,
enchanted, eating glimmered Christmas pies
in Faerie-dusted rooms, we valentines;
both longing for the real food summer’s song
brings blooming from the heat in rose’s palm.


© 2008 by Jefferson Hunt. All rights reserved.