What is this mysterious crying flame,
This urge, deeper than the curve in the young flesh;
The round enchanting turn of the smooth wrist;
The throat, white as the under side of a poplar leaf
And just as fair?
What is this hunger … holy and terrible,
Spawned in the marrow of the white bones?
A hunger that cannot be drowned in surf breaking on a white beach;
Or lost, in the wind coursing through the lane of trees in the forest.
What is the spirit to do
Chained as she is
Like hooded falcon to the wrist,
When she can neither rise, nor fly,
Nor sing her song in the darkness?
Autumn Is Unfair
Autumn is unfair
To stir again, in lash of wood smoke,
Scent of bitter berries
The ashes of desire.
To stir and prod with gnarled unfriendly fingers
The leaves piled high about the tender roots,
Disturbing the sleeping blossoms.
(Oh to be free of this damaging enchantment
Of russet leaves and scarlet thorny hedges!)
Even to walk quite swiftly in the evenings
Down fog-filled streets
Pressing the cool to your lips,
Is not enough;
O anodyne of snow,
Swift-falling, white, delivering angel,
Or rain … or wind … or any single thing
To break this tenuous leash.
To let the heart sleep
Lightly, as the brown tulip bulbs …
To let the heart sleep!
Nocturne