Nomad Writer

With pens dipped

In the ruby inkwells

Of our hearts

We wrote each other

Scarlet promises

On scraps of parchment

(Such silly children)

Staring at each other

We placed them

On our tongues

And swallowed

Those bittersweet vows

Beneath

The sycamore tree

Still standing

Though our love

Had long withered

On the wings

Of spring