One cannot hold onto old winters
     the snow has already fallen
     the grass already turned to a faded brown
     the leaves a season before had begun to fall over our shod feet
          and dark green sweaters which covered our hidden heart
     the rain had already come down in puddles outside our windows and doors as we sat with wine
     and cigarettes, poetry for only ourselves.

We cannot hold onto seasons past
of wet hair from dancing in the rain outside the Underground in front of fountains and under the
Southern night; of wondrous drives through mountains and cafes and coffee overlooking the North Carolina
mountaintops as the stem floated over the gardens; of walking the stone cathedrals silently and planning a future lost in their labyrinths.