He made his vow:

a fortnight in the valley I mope.

Making love to you,

now pulling my hair.

Not a rest comes

when my dreams are free

to claw out my yearning

through opaque scenes.

If I pass through this

shady grove of plastic trees

where his mist escapes

me like the blown leaves,

I won't turn back

nor recollect

what could have been, maybe.

CFH  9/20/11