Melancholy

In the glare of sun hot above midlife
Flushing, withering, love drops receding
Trees shedding leaves down stark naked in glare
a hot wind gropes, roaring. “He will not come.”
Street Dogs pant thirstily, their pond is dry
My heart’s parched, shade of company yearning
No soul is near; buds wilted no sprinkle
flower estranged my beleaguered spirit.
My needs are not much, so few and familiar
A spread of spring I left behind askew
This sun smiling, kissing, rivers gurgling
whispers seductive, breath enamoring.
I’ve come afar from for I must move on
quest to find my new rhyme, a spa anew
Screw up my reflection, the hue of blue
For this journey from raw to ripe is mine.

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