THIS is her room. The sunlight lies In squares upon the floor. Here are her books, the ivory god She brought from Singapore.
Here she stood in shining white Her hands were kind and cool, Her eyes were very still that day, Serene and beautiful.
Out in the sun the garden glowed And I remember this: The fragrance of the grapes, a shower Of starry clematis.
FEBRUARY
ALL the rhythms of life are slow All the streams are choked with snow, Evening skies are pale, The very stars are still, On the long slope of the hill Woodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.
No cloak, no pretense here; The earth is clean as a naked spear, Beauty is stripped bare; But she will stoop as winter lingers To pluck arbutus with expectant fingers, And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.