The Romance of Memory

How my breath does stale within me,
that I am unable to whisper my desire
for even the vaguest ear to bide my way;
and like the desert wind scalds arid plane,
that my sigh should break against my lips
without a moment to purge this doldrum;
yet now the winter breeze taunts my flesh
that I have longed for a caress of soothe,
now trembling with the urgent dance of air;
my solace has emerged with break of day
and I am once more sated in vibrant breath,
at last, a starling calls, and remembers me.