Amo

Pale infrastructure, lily transient, spotted brownstamens shafting proud in animate sculpturebluebells thirsting from a leaf strewn green,grass in patchy outburst, sprouting like an old man’s beardwisteria unfurling into powdered coiffurefecundity of spring.“I, you, me,”I conjugate the alien verbs,they never made much sense and now the sense is lessyour heart is palpitating fullness, thrown across a tablescrambled into bed and I recoil like amputated motherhand protecting nest, where the silence rests.A hover bee hangs over me, he looks,then pollinates whichever colour suits his dreamgrey doves are fluffing out drab feathersand I, surrounded by white Marguerites, succumb to softnessfeel the nestling of green leaves breathe the tartness of the yearbeat my head on borrowed bush keeping cardboard distance.“I, you, we,”the moment shouts again for truth,my clematis wraps me in dark tendrilsthe peace lily’s falling short, and what I need to saymay vanish into May , the present tense of amorewith April’s spattered shades, the, ”so sorry I don’t love you” final mores.