The Heather and the Slings – A Sicilian Octave

i watched the birds dance among the heather, hopping and chirping in the breath of spring. no thoughts had they just then as to whether the frost, nor the chill that winter would bring. no future pain: neither now, or ever, might hope to still the songs that they might sing. their voices: full, warm…

A Stolen Kiss

does the snow remember the leaf it so briefly kissed as it died melting or the somber grey of winter on her burning gold promises of spring rays of bergamot claim the tender lot sending june to her cheeks blushing seasons alight – flushed red with august – rushed auspicious lush roses dripping frozen ground…