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