Where Arctic winds in February
drink from silver springs.
Where a mighty bluster shape
-shifts the cold surface of fast
waters. Where dragon
-shaped clouds start pink fires
on the setting sun. Where jilted leaves
escape death on
sloping banks of time, I crave
delicate snowflakes lingering
on Ariel’s summer
-sweet smile, and so enthused
by spring’s portending, I seal
our fate with a kiss before
April’s first red
-breasted robin returns and
struts upon the freshest grass.