Round harvest-time I slip away
to spare them winter's crueler teeth
while summer's warmth still gilds their skin—
such mercy-lies I whisper sweet
"Last night how you held me..."
Each season brings another garden
where lovers press their hopes to void
and I, still thinking kindness guides,
leave wreckage in my wake
"I love how you run your fingers through my hair. Stay... please just stay."
Ben...