seasons

Summers end approaches
and I am suffused by thoughts of longer nights
as faint tastes of Autumn mock the seriousness of his sun.
Winter is unknown
sleeping dead as the crone in the Earth, but still
I am reminded of four months from now
when morning gathers a chill around her
caking frost on all the flowers.
It is Spring who defies the doldrum cold
and in the months which follow and proceed her demise
I imagine myself making love against her soft belly
against the new growth bursting forth
from the Earth's reanimated corpse.
I will be possessed in the petals of a dream
an endless honey cream pouring hotly from me
a white bubbling stream
entering rapidly into the sea.