What defines a ghazal is a constant longing.
Summer soon becomes quiet, slow, like longing.
In autumn the pine needles fall in droves.
Mid-fall is a fire; it consumes like longing.
The crunch of winter, the acid smell of February.
Early March. Leaves freeze, trees know longing.
What’s the usual sound a leaf makes when
It hits the ground: a quick spring of longing.
Wind twines leaves and twirls them
Like an arabesque. Then rain. Growth is our new longing.
Dogwood flowers drop pieces
Unintentionally. Wanting them back is longing.
We wrap scarves around us to keep out the cold;
Shorts to keep away heat. We enjoy our opposites, revel in longing,
Like a chipmunk dreaming in hibernation.
This is the year, crisp like autumn or longing.
If what defines a ghazal is a constant,
Then seasons shape our wavering wants and longing.
Winter grabs us like an entire year. May lets us forget.
Our constants, our longing.
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