when love lies lonely near the coldest bough of sleep,

knee-deep, I wade in snow in winter’s sorrowful keep.

whatsoever might be said about poetry, why weep

since, as a blessing or a curse, wisdom’s demon’s child,

Nothing yet determined as changeling nor as a source of final blessing,

Nothing diminished or dismissed among the sweep and range of mountain,

Glimpsed far beyond my window, neither as nurse or midwife to the meadow,

widowed by outermost edge of pastureland and yet, out of reach?

 

I believe I know what I would do if this ever happened:

If a stranger invited me down to ramble among stone-

filled quarry and creek located next to jackdaw, wren,

pine, and conifer, and so, on that occasion, while I might relent a little,

saying that while my traveling days are few and far between,

because I am no longer fearful, but I am beggared by the hand of chance

in any case, I can still choose and decide what might be considered as best.

But, no, don’t tell me I would not narrate: what if my limbs gave way

and neither you nor darkness could shoulder me across the steep,

ragged torment of rivers in the pogrom of all my remaining days

informing me, telling me: what was lost was lost forever

And that which makes me stagger in the dark, the fact

I’ve only travelled once and that was not quite far enough?

when love lies lonely near the coldest bough of sleep,

knee-deep, I wade in snow in winter’s sorrowful keep.

whatsoever might be said about poetry, why weep

since, as a blessing or a curse, wisdom’s demon’s child,

Nothing yet determined as changeling nor as a source of final blessing,

Nothing diminished or dismissed among the sweep and range of mountain,

Glimpsed far beyond my window, neither as nurse or midwife to the meadow,

widowed by outermost edge of pastureland and yet, out of reach?

I believe I know what I would do if this ever happened:

If a stranger invited me down to ramble among stone-

filled quarry and creek located next to jackdaw, wren,

pine, and conifer, and so, on that occasion, while I might relent a little,

saying that while my travelling days are few and far between,

because I am no longer fearful, but I am beggared by the hand of chance

in any case, I can still choose and decide what might be considered as best.

But, no, don’t tell me I would not narrate: what if my limbs gave way

and neither you nor darkness could shoulder me across the steep,

ragged torment of rivers in the pogrom of all my remaining days

informing me, telling me: what was lost was lost forever

And that which makes me stagger in the dark, the fact

I’ve only travelled once and that was not quite far enough?

 

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