Combating Low Weather

Sable eyes and blue smiles: a proud contention: a fever in a

valley, but a torn reality, where favor is melancholic, and

joy becomes a hangman. I try with such myself: watching

as apples blossom, and peaches bloom. But ever a grain—a

hint of passion, as sullen as mourning. So I sport a shirt and

tie, a Windsor Knot—ever to ‘fuddle a mirror, and ever to

shock a system; and there I sit, staring and elevating, ironing

a khaki blazer. A night is laced with promise: a heart

yearning, flickering a flame, asearch for a liaison; and there

she loves: wide-eyed, frenzied, and romantic. I feel her as a

favorite portrait, in need of attention, despite glances and

musings. We hug a bar, sipping Daiquiris, pondering our next

whisper. She reaches out and grips a hand, and I cry of

intentions. We pause; gazing into brochure eyes. Our

morning has spoken: somewhat lingering: shattered in an

utterance: “We shouldn’t tamper.”