all of the roses are fat—
their branches laid over
with the heaviness of
unseemly exuberance

the days are long
and drunk with light—
and a passion of breeze
riffles the leaves of summer


yet i am numb to all of it
in the haze of uncertainty
of how it all comes and mostly goes
...
were it not for love's bright cast
no shadows would exist
on the walls of the heart's chamber

but here, nature's duality seems a reckoning
out of balance in its consequences—
what with a mere bright second of hope 
against the dark infinity of so much more to lose