He Says He'll Send Roses, Too, But They Never Arrive

Vanquished by the wicked
cold, the mercurchrome
and melancholy of love,
he rode his bike away,
shivering from the late
spring, the cottonwood's seeds
floating down in the river's
chill, his knuckles burning,
his face and lips smitten
with her fragrance. What
was it that he wanted
after all? A night's tussle
under her lilac arms, her
incomprehensible joy,
her silly clothes, she dressed
more like a snowfire crab
than a redbud, more star-struck
than slender or graceful
but behind her big fishbowl
glasses she gazed in wonder,
naked and lovely in
her robe of bearded iris,
and as he rode home
in spring's full flooding glory
he knew he must return
to his room and his books
and the window on which
he looked out on the world,
it was safer there, behind
the glass and the pane,
he had to wait for this season
to spend its fury before
he could venture again.