Greenclad.

Under a Thorn

I went through narrows of the fall from you,
through the blackbird's throat and the mote of spring,
sweet pain of replay and the quarrel's sting
to lengthen summer shadows of the yew.

Autumn sequinned leaves in a tear-sewn cloak;
winter braced rough winds that swirled and scowled,
then to my music nodded, tired and cowled;
and I knew where the cold celandines woke.

Now you are in the narrows of a past
and world booms out so wide and deep and wild.
I've tunneled through the dark wall of a well;

I've found the spring by thorn is fed to last,
seen the grown eyes, grieving of the lost child,
shaped by her own words, words the night might tell.