There is no prerogative in the realm of human affairs
nor breath of air that isn’t tinged with sadness,
a faultless poem if such were ever to be composed
would speak of love as heaven sent
and the moon as epitome of understanding in a plum delia sky,
why is the rosella its own worst enemy?
Why does recognition only appear around stretch of dawning?
At this time of the year I would usually break down
as dust settles upon relics of a bygone age
but there’s something about the way your words touched me
as honeysuckles bloom into summer crossings,
I am thinking of you
of what it would be like hearing you read my work out loud
as hours lead us slowly away from June.