Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Through the winter branches of my garden
slips the slow and soundless turning of the earth.
I recognize my invitation
to taste the melting sap of life enseasoned.
Spin world. Journal of days,
Banquet of hours —
I am shrouded, richly cloaked in longing.
Come. I am a host of women waiting.
Come. I dare the joy of leaves unfurled
from tutored rows
of frozen faces.
Winter has ribboned my limbs in memory.
Quietly listening, I have prayed (like you)
for grass to grow.
In picture books the old reality is bound
and catalogued, but never buried.
Shall I whisper, breaking branches?
I foresee the crystal shatter.
A toast, then, to the years lost
Witness how unlocked gates in storms blow open.
After snowfall I have sat with time
and heard grass growing
into the sun.
Old heart, still throbbing,
Friend through all these years,
Constant child and ever-willing mate,
Father and mother to my soul —
You are the lion of love,
That went roaring through the night
And after rocked me fast asleep
Upon the swaying sea of hours.
Gentle creature, you brought the
Ladder of light before my unused eyes
And carried me beyond the sky
Into this clear, untimed subtlety.
O, my heart, tender and sweet of breath,
Chart quickly now for the den of silence,
Where celestial beings dance in reverence,
Where you and I at last will rest,
Free of fear and bedded warm