On The Brink (Poetry)

I sense you’re on the very brink
of meaning what you nearly say —
I almost hear the words you think
before you turn and walk away.

A certain look betrays your face
and, for a moment, all seems clear
then inner conflict takes its place
and reservations interfere.

First hot then cold — thought’s fickle draught
blows all my seasons into one —
the smile of Summer fades too fast,
a blink and joyless Winter’s come.

Could we not start with gentler Spring
and slowly see what dreams unfold —
let this relationship begin
with hope, then gradually evolve?

Frail patience, paper-thin — the cost
of waiting while you wrestle doubt —
knows he who hesitates is lost
and fires, untended, will go out.