I don’t see you, love,
and I become a dry well
filled with clouds of dust,
with tattered cobwebs.
I don’t hear you laugh –
I’m a bird without a song,
fluttering from branch to branch
in the ashen tree of night.
I don’t touch you, my peerless beauty –
I’m a butterfly dying
in an icy realm bereft of flowers.
Until we meet once more
there remain only
dewy memories
and kisses on the wind.

*    *   *

© Gregory V Driscoll  2014

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