Malady unvaried in monotonous rhythm,
my love retires annually to her bed,
pushing away all who seek embrace.
Pallid and shivering, she slumbers
for months until, recovered,
she returns to her responsibilities
as if nothing had been amiss.
I would weary of the hackneyed drama
but this year she lingers
over-long in her malaise.
On the mend, fever broken during night,
she struggles from beneath coverings,
plucks a crocus from bedside bouquet,
adorns grayed head with purplish optimism.
But by next day she sinks again
under the avalanche of illness,
smiles turned to scowls,
light of her eyes stormed with threats
to any who question her resolve
to climb to wellness.
I yearn to see her stroll through
gardens drowned in sunshine
and bedazzled with dahlia and marigold,
singing with robins, dancing with wind-blown willows.
Yet this year feels different:
will my love ever come back to me?
©2018 Kenneth W. Arthur
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