Mere

It is the worry of cleanliness— 
perhaps the worry of purity—
that ruined my dear Mere.
What was once a blossom,
is now sickly type of cherry.

Then, I will ask her if she can smell
the becomings of our devotion
that tango in my nose.
Then, she will deny me 
praying that the stench dissipates.

Maybe Winter will run down below
and maybe Spring will introduce light:
Killing the dirtiness
that haunts my dearest Mere
and relinquish her old terrors.