Slow with the cold truth i drift
from the bee-loud field into the quiet woods,
dome going gold and shot with sky,
to the breath of new fire in the night-cold grate;
all dark solid trunks and gold-green boughs,
the forest gathers around the four sides,
guileless beauty with no self-regard,
no sense of position in a society of trees,
accepting my presence and accepting my past,
a foolish woodland man who lived his life
falling in love until the love was gone
and all that was left was the falling.
All the soft words of change change little,
and absence is the proof of it,
me and the fire by ourselves,
blue-tongued and drowsing
in this asylum for misplaced affections,
warm finally, nearly consumed.
