Seasons

She pours her essence
Into wooden planters and terra cotta jars
In equal measure
With carefully chosen soil.

Her face lights
At each new blossom
A winsome sigh
Over fragrant herbs.

Her body sways in the breeze
As careless fingers caress
Brilliant colors
Carefully planted for effect.

The summer tans her shoulders,
Her breasts,
That are offered to the sun
For its tender kiss.

She changes with the leaves
Turning shades of melancholy
And falling
With the autumn chill,

Until winter strips her emotions bare
And one can only find her
Under an old afghan
Sipping Earl Grey.

Bowed down like the evergreens
Under scintillating snow,
She has no eye for winter brilliance;
Only for the latest book on the list.

Desolate until spring
When she can start her newest cycle
Of unconscious pagan ritual
Bloodless earthy worship.

She says that I’ve killed her lust for love.
One cannot injure what never was.