Somewhere
there are birches,
and they are covered with snow
and pale light,
and there are footprints
on a road between them,
and it is a foggy dream,
perhaps in morning,
between one of those pauses
where day passes into another room,
but the road leads somewhere,
to the heart,
to joy,
to sorrow,
buildings where I walk
and know islands of art,
and bottles of music,
and my life is new,
and there is a sun that refuses to set,
a moon that hovers like a pearl,
and all ages seem one,
and all love
belongs to a woman of a thousand faces.
So where do I go
in this life without birches?
A road to great buildings?
A fog that hangs like a diaphanous cloak,
and a language
more music than words,
in a place where I go
to see you,
and hold you,
and share flowers in summer?