Again, the last day of spring.

I care no other words to sing.


Writing on you while you’re still there.

Loving on you though you can’t share.

Rejecting sentiment.

This thing, I do to stay alive—

a brace of morning air,  not contrived.

No dementia.


Again, the first day of summer.

Days and nights feign warmer.


Writing on you, letters to flesh,

ink to soul somehow to mesh.

Lingering scent.

Just over the past horizon, there—

reachable still, I swear.

Minds rent.


by S.A. Bort / 23 June 2013

photo by S.A. Bort / 22 June 2013