Late and gradual the sleeping earth
turns on the wheeling year's axle
down the high road planets wander
with the stars in back
and the year changes.
Raw drafts of rain
drift through the mild elms
darkening the sun of the last day
as it winters in these branches.
Just off the path
gently as breath
in the trees
the sere leaves gather me
into their stillness
for solace
rounding my shoulders
with obscure light from the wooded slope
till this place where I've never walked before
turns familiar as daily love.
Waking with you.
Our bodies are thoughts
drifting toward the cloudy other sleeping
somewhere.
We do not sleep together.
Your hair is white.
The year's wheel drives the earth.
The winter woods quicken with nightfall
so clear, so clear I can see by it.
Years.
Sometimes, you said, your eyes darken privately
and you smile, casting to mind memory
of such a place as this.
It is like that with me.
These years away from one another, and late.
Against that time only that we carry everywhere
our hale and most lovely equal bracing of kisses
in the deep woods and leaves' wet light.