Is Love to blossom as a flower and then quickly pass away
When the Winter of romance unexpectedly arrives?
To everything there is a season (or so the poets say)
But doth not Love go on to live in other's lives?

What of Love's passion; a fire that left untended dies
Or burns all in its path should it stray
And if it strays, its fleeting ardor can not be denied
Despite the hollow nature of its play

But even passion that strays not and yet remains unfed,
Soon dies bereft of warmth and in anguished pain
And the tenderest of hands can not relight the ash-filled bed
Of the fire that once raged; dust remains

But Love is not an evergreen, neither Love's friend Sorrow
(Tho' this blasphemy invites the poet's scorn)
Love resides alone in the blossoms of tomorrow
A promise that lies hidden on a cold December morn

But I'll remember Love and for that memory give my all
Gladly give my life to feel Its touch again
And tho' others cloak themselves 'gainst the bite of Winter's call
Naked will I tend the Fire through wind and cold and rain

Just to feel the Summer's sun upon my hopeful face
To share the soft, sweet scent of Love's transient embrace
If ever asked to recount what I remember of this place
Love and Love alone has been my saving Grace