November ends in a shiver.
Brown leaves quake on oaks
in southbound arctic winds.
 
Green is out of season now
and honeysuckle sleeps.
  
I long for fragrances
born of April, ones that will draw
bees and me
to inhale eternity.
  
Unlike November,
April is a month
that transcends Earth,
and I long to glide on  wings
with butterflies
after winter runs its course.

Some nights after chemo,
she wakens me
in shadows of night,
begging that I come.
I squeeze her
with all the strength
I can muster, 
and she seems comforted,
comforted that I care enough
to throw my covers off
to take her hugs.
  
Sometimes, I am overwhelmed
by her midnight passion
and bestow my love in a flush.