Flora In Memoriam

The wind at our face was against us
and the arms we would brace were aside.
The breeze swept, wept and sighed,
for our room was emptied of roses.

This last stroll we took was saintless;
a death march of her wits and my pride.
I descanted my doom, you and I.
Love weathered by art had erased us.

I was Petrarch with laurels and loss.
Moss wreathes raked by the tide,
fettered and fringed, they swept by
and our time had been passed by what raced us.

I was Job with a fortune of daughters
some Jah had divinely unproved.
I, upright and blameless, refused
to be punished for devotion and falter

In my love for the heavens that brought her.
I held too tight with hands we entwined,
she had palms for the wind to defile.
So I wandered on, I had at last lost her.

I was parched and my decanter of water
sweat dew drops, they ran down the side.
Cannot dote; not the place, nor cry.
My wet words were, to her, bath water.

So where may I wash up, you sage,
Or wash out my language of love?
If your hardness of heart must be moved,
I’ll filter it fine through a filthy page.