might I wait
ten thousand winters
for a morning
such as this
to find you in the shadows
of the moon
beneath the mist
as tender turn the locust
from their beds
forgotten
was the number
of days ascribed between
when night was come
a sleepy hum
of lullaby and curse
made for me to wonder
as so often I allow
bathed in this impression
of another
just as new
when daffodil were swaying
o’er the memory
of tears
crushed beneath the light
of just beginning
silent as a kiss
to haunt the dew

. . .