Might I behold you more intently
in rapid strides of summertime
when the wine flows endless
from the purple vines
and fertile trees,
pastel flowers
beckon
to plentiful pastures  —

Now,
in the dregs of February winds
when the wine turns to water,
the feasting table
to scattered breadcrumbs,
in utter starkness

I behold your face
and all that we treasure
beyond flesh and sinew,
bone and marrow,
root and river —

I hold your hand,
feel the rousing of crocuses,
the stirring
of daffodils.

by D. G. Vachal © 2015

*** Photography Credit: Jean Winters Olkonen