June 09, 2026
More in Jasmine's Poetry
Elegy For Winter
The blackberries are
withered, my love. Winter has
come; no longer will
the fruit stain my lips
plum. No longer will its juice
trickle down my chin,
and you are not here
to lap its honey; for you
have gone away, flown,
my butterfly. There
is frost on the ground shrouding
your tracks, and the
ice mourns its clipped wings.
withered, my love. Winter has
come; no longer will
the fruit stain my lips
plum. No longer will its juice
trickle down my chin,
and you are not here
to lap its honey; for you
have gone away, flown,
my butterfly. There
is frost on the ground shrouding
your tracks, and the
ice mourns its clipped wings.
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