Chills 

One sun-drenched day 
she determines 
not to pass him by, 
and quivering, 
feels his breath warm "Yes," 
until dusk lures yellows 
and reds beneath   
horizon's line, 
and evening chill numbs his fingers. 

Visited still by calendars 
of pressed rose memory, 
she pens unrhymed words 
for his turned eyes, 
still feeling the soft flutters 
of the butterfly's wings 
in midnight's cold.

Nancy Bowe's questions:

1. Do you hear the loss of a love relationship in this poem?

2. Are there any suggestions you would make to fine-tune lines that for you personally could be stronger?

3. Thanks for your thoughts.