Benches

Cold as ice in the deep of a winter night
concrete and rebar make up the cozy bed
to lovers in search of a forgotten home.

Shining with the showers of a breezy March
metal as lace impossible for a brief rest
with only memories of a dying Valentine.

Into antique days of primal artists
as if the flesh of naked Adam and Eve alone
marbled by the weary stance at battle.

Knight for his lady under the heavy shade
in a fortress of century oaks he builds a shack
armor to silk tunic to travel to Avalon as one.

Now among the fields of red clay and fashioned greens
molded by the white safety of science, they melt
in the heat of August abandoned for the false safety of distance.

Resting upon the clouds of heaven ancestors ponder
lines of Sappho, Petrarch and William with a sigh
for the moments too ephemeral vanished into eternity.

What has happened to the gentle locus they sought
makeshift benches, masterpieces molded by fiery passions
it is time to leave the tower filled with the sorrows of winter.