winter’s morning

winter's morning

      What is this love to you? – no more
       than a web woven of parting and absence,
       a cradle the frost spins for evanescence
       and fixes at three trembling points or four
       between reed and reed at the lake's brink
        on a winter's morning? Or do you see
        us two linked only by fragile tracery
        of long-wintered beeches? Or think
        we run ripples on the lake?
       as frail as these have a place in nature, 
       vanishing always between past and future, 
       and in love too is a place for yearnings
       and the torture of wind in the web and high
       mockery of leafless twigs. 
But where am I? 
O come and find me where the rock gives birth
in the deep luxurious hollows of the earth
and find me in the boles of mighty trees. 
Find me and love me in the mosses of my ease
where lusty roots and limbs timelessly  writhe, 
where our long summer's buried but alive.