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 to bud 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 in discontent. 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, Bowing — Where you and I at last will rest, Free of fear and bedded warm In knowledge.