Winter's Late Day

January 13th, 2019

In the winter’s late day,
When the final strands of sunlight
Brush through the snow-bathed aspen
And the crisp blueness of the air
Blankets the earth in implacable quiet,
We are, more than you.
In the damp, we were born in darkness,
Into the cool eden we grew — before time was named
Or knowledge grew in flowering fruits.
Before you grew to be, we were,
Before you opened your eyes, we had seen the world,
And before you took your first breath,
we had made the air from sulfure
and from ether.
Your first steps were on our upturned face,
And in our body you will be buried, alone with us,
For no one lasts forever.
You first made love in our bed, under our blankets—
Our blankets and the trees’ —
Who had seen your ardor grow beneath their branches.
You ran to us when love had left you,
Entreating us of your bloodied soul
— and we had held you, wrapped you in verdancy
Until your tears abated.
We remained as you ran to war,
And mourned your youth, grown in our garden,
Shorn by sword and scythe,
And harvested in fields of battle.
We have seen your quarrels and we are unimpressed.
Your fervor and your fury amount to nothing,
And as we are, you are discontent to be.
We are the soft omnipotent mosses, the great transcendent us
And when you have had your fill of trying,
You will join our being, errant son of Earth.

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