An aphrodisiac will disappear,delusional, like permanence or wealth - a shimmering, as if love were a ghost -and yet my passion for you seethes and searswithout an end. Late April leaves can’t cravecaress of dew, sunlight’s sweet splash, more thanI pine for your embrace, us turned to one;when harsh reversals scar, the thought of you will salvelike summer wind in autumn; deep red bloodsurging along with mine, staid genes worked hotfrom your electric charms, as all my moodssuccumb to your sweet fire, and perfect wit.Now you are all I live for - loving you -in fleeting world of lies, you are the truth.

A hundred years or more, she's bent her crownin storm, in sun, in moonsplashed midnight breeze.surviving all the random vagariesof this harsh world. A dense - twigged veil drifts downfrom crown along her trunk - mourning slow woodthat rustles tattered, in a hint of windthis January dusk, cloudy, purplingthe ground with sudden shadows. How she broods -you speculate - on dark surprise and loss,alone these many years, despondent, bent,her bolt-cracked mate transformed to splinters, moss.Though not alone, you feel the sadness of atwilight breeze. There's never enough love;the widow nods to you. Her branches moan.