a poem for my wife

a season, out-of-season – so is she
who stands beside me on this journey brief;
though may i sink beneath anxiety,
and run aground of every brand new reef,

she carries spring around as though her right.
i’m sure it is as legal as a deed,
to turn a cold wind mild, day to night,
and all such as may suit her mood and need.

for left alone, i tend towards entropy:
to dissipate whatever pow’r is mine,
indulging in the latest fallacy
of small distinction – far, far less than fine.

but there is hope with her in what she’s shared
to spring me to such dreams as ne’er I dared

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