small circlet and slim

were my fingers then.

Now they are wrought of iron

to wrest from earth

secrets; strong to protect,

strong to keep back the winter

when winter tracks too soon

blanch the forest:

strong to break dead things,

the young tree, drained of sap,

the old tree, ready to drop,

to lift from the rotting bed

of leaves, the old

crumbling pine tree stock,

to heap bole and knot of fir

and pine and resinous oak,

till fire shatter the dark

and hope of spring

rise in the hearts of men.

What of her—

 Prev. P 22/71 next