i cleave to myself, o’erwhelmed
on a stuttered trail of dreams
holding this space ‘tween the firs
’til in snowfall i dissolve
fallen to the flurry of time

often have i bethought myself
of the needle wreath she placed there
(’twas as fine a crown as any)
she told me she loved me for the last time
& i’ve waited since for renewal
for the gladdening of another spring

the older i get, the younger i feel
& predictably, the less i know
tho’ i am sad, i’m very much alive
hoar frost my heart & beard
& strangely featherlight this weight of years

no longer will i trace my beginnings
nor do i care to know my end
hereon this wintry canvas
i’ll remember her to aught that hear
& bethink the ones left behind
then in silence wish that all be well

i am ready to move on
this my bearing, for better or ill
‘neath the greylag’s flurry for more time
within the great white yawn ‘tween wooded tines
a world sadly devoid of her charms