Already the spring lilacs are failing,

in pieces and chunks, the way rust

ruins metal everywhere.

It doesn't take much of that before

she begins not to care. Which makes her

want to rip the flawed flowers

maliciously from the bushes, seeing how

wind and butterflies and blossoming

can be confused with feeling.

Love lies on the mountain with calm

and counterweight. In the center,

with the presence, in the sunlight.