I dream of lovers
as varied as the flowers
which speak their names to me
in the wood.
Some corpulent and sturdy,
others barely there,
the ephemerals of Spring
the hearty blossoms of autumn.
I am happy to drink them all in.
Each one, though, is worlds away from the rest,
no common thread to be found amongst my attractions
other than
the wild hearts
which beat
to that
same
ancient
rhythm.
