when the moon stops
influencing the high and low tides
the lights of day are lost
in fearful shadows of frost
there will be no more springs
never again on the warm days of May
devoid of wings
the poor dove will fly
we will miss the sun
and your smile
hidden in the craters of the moon
I naively thought it was mine
they will be storms,
they will last two years
and from nothing, just as it began
it will end with the timid brushing of our fingers, and the tears of a poor man
