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Will the train arrive on time or will there be an accident, far up the line; and all the other trains that follow still have no place else to go? And will the wine taste full and deep, instead of going bad, like vinegar? And will the day pass by without a glitch, without a hitch, no sad or hurtful moments to recall, no why or wherefore hanging in the air without an answer close at hand?
I will a Journey make, The hurried journey of mankind. I will, for goodness’ sake, Return to her and goodness find. I will the darkness break, And break my heart at break of broken day. The pile of sodden leaves I rake, Is only half the price of winter that I pay. And say I to the rafters, shake! And also to the earth below, For I have hurried love to make, I hurry love to make my lover know.
February, the light tells me what to do. His scent draws me down. The den is quiet, outside hushed by earthen walls. I climb into his lap of fur. Asleep, his heart is a slow drum. He arranges me with his paws, wears me as he dreams. My body is changed now, Slippery. I have a tail, and beech leaves in my hair— more myself than ever. In profile, he has a roman nose, And eyes that possess instantly, all my secrets.
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