Because the Lover had not
met his own heart
he kept falling in love
with the moon
in Autumn veils,
her pearl beam pouring
into his open palm,
impossible to hold and keep…
Thus he had fallen 
for Summer, the wings 
of a dying moth,
a wet ruby leaf
on an empty bench,
and the beauty  
of Winter night
on a frozen pond
with all its false
and terrible stars.

Photo: Old bench in my back yard