Love is a word out of season,
a fruit not yet ripe,
a fragile flower still in bud.
Have I spoken too soon,
deceived by an early spring,
with frost yet to come?
The thought brings sadness,
like a dark cloud moving
to cover the brightness of the day.
I fear a song that might need be sung,
not of much desired joy, of dancing,
but a song sung by a fool
who has lost his greatest treasure.
He will sing beautifully,
his words weaving through the air
like birds flying before a summer
Ah, that my heart need not
carry such a heavy stone --
be light and carefree again,
and sing a different song.

Prev Next


© 1990 Steven E. Callihan

URL: http://www.callihan.com/