Words to Last
         the freshness of a too early spring --
             mocking shadows of memory,
               in a stillborn embrace.

           islands of self unveiled --
              through lifting mists of banality,
                too tired any more to crave.

            slouching towards a final discovery --
               echoes only I can hear,
                 plucked by unsought wings.

            the wind really does whistle --
                not just a poet's conceit,
                   a timeless refrain, an endless solitude.

             words to last, to stretch --
                  across philosophers' artificial categories,
                     for a soulmate barely touched ...