for Alison

I'm like a widower in winter;
ten weeks is a tad too long.
I miss your gossip over coffee,
your skin's slow, reminiscent song

of when, still not two decades back,
our bodies reached a wild entente
that rose into our minds as well
supplying all a pair might want

when rubbed a little by the years.
We chose to keep our separate houses.
Those first excitements stir me still.
Each week, another dream arouses

souvenirs I thought had cooled.
They flock into this spring and throng.
The day is warm with prunus flowers.
Ten weeks is a tad too long.