Honeysick and aching,

I’ve found the book of pressed flowers,
Aging on a shelf much like I have been,
And re-read each loving line.
Each moment of bliss actively in arms reach, 
I’ve come to remember, to collect myself,
To add new passages in this country of gardenbeds,
Where wild blossoms whisper your name so that it rhymes with mine.
Honeysick and dizzy, 
I imagine being shrouded in your arms,
Warm and immaculate as a deluge of sun rays,
Poking holes in an umbrella.
On days like this, I’m heavy with thanks and daydreams;
A Gordian knot for a heart,
In love with a sword.