poem: Passions

Time passes, passions change.
What used to stir, is now mere story,
a narrative of quickening, lacking sweat
and grime.

One wonders at some slow kindling,
a seed left in frozen soil.

Come spring, and rain,
the unmet pollen of new regard,
come bees, with their tiny licks,
intense but minuscule theater of foreplay.

I'm waiting.