Wary of the Winter Wind

He smells like everything green.
Like rosemary, basil, mint, and fresh cut grass.
His eyes a grey-blue, like angry clouds that
aren’t quite sure what they want to do.

He smiles like a summer breeze in mid-september,
reminding me of where I’ve been and where I’m going.
His fiery hair swooped to one side, seeing him is
all at once refreshing and nostalgic.

He plays a violin concerto on
my heart strings, but I’m afraid
of the bow scarring my already-fragile aorta,
so I stop him short of the first cadenza.

What he doesn’t know is
that the moment he starts the
second movement, I’m his
to the final note.

The script can still be re-written.
There is still time to change the cast.
Perhaps, with time, this too shall pass, but
for now, I’m helplessly stricken with stage-fright.

All but frozen, I don the mask of passivity.
I pretend that he no longer appears in my dreams.
I play my little part for the crowd. No Adler or Stanislavsky required.  
I act like he’s not the first, last, and only act of the play that we’re in.

He smells like everything green.
Like pine needles, emeralds, envy, and fresh cut grass.
His eyes a grey-blue, like an accumulation of
cumulonimbus clouds, wary of where the breeze may take them.

Wary of where they may take Me.
Of where they may take him.