Here you come once again with your delicate rains: petals break forth like the rainbow while scarlet-breasted robins alight upon the thickening carpet of emerald grass —
You perplex me so: warm and cold, endearing and aloof, the way long-forgotten loves drove me to the very edge of madness —
O April, enshroud me in the intimacy of your mysteries, then will I comprehend the reason for the ethereal blossoms fragrant in the month of May.
How could you ever love me now after so many winters past, carved rivulets form upon my face, winter cold tunnels furrow nettled branches upon my lips —
now when my arms and legs are krummholz, tree branches disfigured by cruel north winds —
what ever do you see in my tired eyes the way one tenderly beholds a newborn eaglet breaking from its shell expectant for its maiden flight —
do you see beyond the farthest ebony-ice mountains, the mystery of the uttermost remote white stars, the silent moon, disregard the momentary sparkle of the here and now —
how could you ever love me bone and marrow, petal and sepal, root and river.
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