Yearlong
If ever I would leave you, it would be in Winter
with a mix of sleet and rain.
Sleet, to complicate our bittersweet falling-apart.
Rain, to masquerade my tears.
If ever I would call you, it would be in Springtime
asking if the roses came
and then hoping you had a very Happy Birthday.
I might hint that I’m lonely.
If ever I would see you, it would be in Summer
with the smell of new mown grass
as we are walking the paths of the Public Garden
and kissing by the Lagoon.
If ever I would return, it would be in Autumn
when the trees are their brightest
the air is its freshest, and you are your loveliest.
That would be my happiness.