The Wait
Chills so late in May,
Shivering in spring's delay,
Sky first blue, then back to grey,
Coquettes smile, then they turn away.
Suitors think they have a chance,
From gleaming eyes or skies of blue,
Brighter for the shortness of the glance,
Desire grows where victories are few.
Spring with Bottecelli eyes,
Dance of seven weeks and veils,
Turning tide of truth is less than lies,
An almost kiss isn't really telling tales.