April, August, Autumn
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
We both flirt April with each other, you
And I, at first. The clouds, if any, rise
In white and seem not tinged except with blue,
Perhaps not even blue. We look with eyes
That phoenixes have never burned away.
When roses bloom, they lack the thorns of sex.
Like peonies we open and we sway
As one, as aristocratic as Aix.
A summer comes with heat between us two
But you resist, unfallen Lucifer,
And suddenly all beauty that was true
Transforms me to a blizzard crucifer.
I bear the cross for decades till God kills
Your veins because his autumns lost their thrills.
~ Phillip Whidden