Under The Trees


Will they bring him here
under the tall pines
on a needle bed
where no sun shines,
crouched in the dark
and the brown
under the skirts of the trees?

Will they bring him here
to the mountain’s sunless slopes
misted with tears
and broken hopes
where the wind whines
and the wolf
sings to the lantern moon?

Will he lie with you
on this musty bed
at the end of your longing
when he is dead,
and pale snow
wrap its soft arms
round your togetherness,

and will you too
when all the tears are shed
stretch out beside him
where sweet cones are spread
and let the scent of pine
die in your head …
under the trees?


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