A warm afternoon,
and we cry for yesterday.
Nothing is sinful,
just an impulse
to enchain the heart.
 
A few disturb the dust
from jasmine leaves.
Ascending to a summer
retreat, with purpose
and hopes of release.
 
And what of the spring,
white and dead?
Robbed of desire
and spread over
the trees and the sky.
 
I see hope shimmering
on a woman’s blouse.
And when she is gone,
a brushstroke flash –
and tears flow and mingle  
for joy …