"You are like the Spring, a breath of fresh air among dead leaves,
a flower, blossoming before my eyes."
She let him feel the scent as of a flower,
and picked faded petals from her heart.
He called her Summer,
said her eyes were like the late summersky.
She let him drift as a raven in her look,
and longed for the summer that left her once,
a cold and grey autumn morning.
He said she was the Autumn,
she danced like the light leaves in a whirlwind.
She let him dance with him,
as the moaning wind through the trees,
and said; "The autumn won't suit me".
She said to him; "I am like a Winter,
my words stay like metal against my cold lips.
My tough against you skin is like morning rime in the rain.
For I left warmth in sorrow and with bitter tears,
just as warmth left me."
She left him with a frozen rose
and drifted like the leaves in their dance.
He stood there, alone, among the Spring's dripping tear-branches,
and watched a snowwhite dove against the late summersky.
~Ingvild Gregersen
The Poetry Page