I'll be the Queen of Fall,
with red oak leaves in my birch wood hair,
and kisses that taste like maple syrup.
I'll dub you my King of Catch,
to hold me when the Winter fae come clawing at my door,
and the glittering wings of winter breaths carry depression through my lungs.
We'll make love on drizzling April afternoons,
and warm June evenings, when even the sun is reluctant to go to sleep.
We'll have princesses and princes
of Spring and Summer
who's eyes glitter like frost on willow limbs,
and minds bloom like violet petals.
Thunderclaps will be our drum beat,
when we hold concerts for the cicadas and whispering grass.
Lightning, our pyrotechnics,
dazzling the night sky,
with our heads thrown upwards to preach to the stars.
Northern lights will be our nightlights,
dew drops and low-lying fog, our cover,
that whispers around our twisted bare limbs,
as we wrap ourselves around each other,
to shelter, and shiver with rapture.
We'll press flowers in classic novels,
and ones never published