Would you believe

if i say i can see buds bursting into dreams
and in one blue dream you are gliding through
cloud-ridden moonlight, and when i call
you tell me this is no time for words, then another
bud bursts into a summer sun and i find you
lost in a quiet haze sipping a melon sherbet
i ask you if you have noticed the archaic
fountain where gold-winged butterflies make
their nest and you quip there is hardly a reason
to look for relics as all winged marvels have gone
where falling cherry petals make a blizzard

if i say, since then the dreams have stopped
busting out, since then life has been a foggy path
without end, only a here-and-there glimmer of sun
which i mis-read as golden butterflies, believing my
poem to be the soliloquy of a yearning alchemist
neither is it the sadness of a commonplace poet
but rather a thirsty quest for togetherness