The wavering winter

Drops dry leaves to rustle

Cold wind is devoid of moisture

Lips dry over the wet tongue

The year crumbles without a face


Lovers  laugh at delayed fate and carve

On the bark of a living tree

It does not know the date


Should there be an arrow?

No more hurt this heart can not hate

Or names?

Whatever you call  as yours


The tree grows with concentric rings

There are poems in every turn or curve

They had drawn a complete heart

Using hand full of eyes.