A Vernal Melancholy ("Perfume from the magic flower fills the air, my darling. Right at our doorstep I have stored up for you all kinds of tasty fruit." -- Song of Songs 7:13) Don't hide the gardenias from my eyes, from my ears, don't secret the hibiscus beneath the back porch shadows, Bring the apples from the northwest, oranges from the gulf, grapes and wine, honey from the comb, perfume and cologne at the front door of the soul where love sits waiting. But I'm the one who waits now for the love, I know I heard the voice, that promised never to leave or forsake. And I've found that tears have mass. That's the reason why they stain my glasses when I cry. And so I hoped the flow would stop dust from gathering on the tulips struggling through cracked skin early spring. But flowers bloom, flowers die, and no one knows why. From my window I can only watch as the love that is planted twists like a wheel-of-fortune and spins out of control toward the sky. I Mourn the high magic that bloomed so quickly, sprang up so quickly overnight and nestled its fragrance a memory forever while I wipe the stains from my glasses again. Mark Phillips -- ╭─────────────────────────╮ │"There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by │ │scorn." -- Albert Camus │ ╰────────────◇ http://distract.org/ ◇╯ --

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