March brings April grey;
Robed in green, we dance
Through dewy blades and gasping springs;
Your laughter echoes through the rain.

Under summer’s unrelenting blue
We gorge on nature;
You stain your lips crimson
As we taste the strange exotica
Of foreign lands: mango, pineapple -

Pomegranate seeds.

You push them through your crimson
Lips, and feed me ruby jewels, counting
Under heady breath:










One, two, three.

The sky concedes to scarlet
Dusk and night falls on

Autumn, over barren fields where the
Blossom crowns of summer trees have
Hardened and fallen, lying crisp upon
The sterile ground. Wheat sheaves scratch
Under foot, oozing crimson like your lips, as
Yesterday’s fruit resigns to russet bushes
Freckled with bitter scarlet balls:

We tasted the pomegranate, and now we wear
Black in an auburn land, and I wear crimson lips too