a slow adulterated love sonnet…
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “Wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
When Love Loses Its Hold
You were not the first dawn to fill my day;
nor the only river to make me pause;
not the only red cleft plain of clay;
But you were the one who gave me cause.
I watched your stalks grow high upon a field;
And in summer’s heat, I felt the sting of flies;
Yearning to lie down, inside to yield;
I waited for your harvest, waiting wise.
Naked now, I stand in winter’s cold;
Stripped of wants with clarity;
You are the reaper of my world, and truth be told –
There is none other with your parity.
Years have passed on silvered wings, and I am old;
Gone is the love from spring; love’s lost its hold.