Strolling this summer day In the grove of words I pick up sensations within My body as I would pick up

Acorns, feathers, pinecones, Spider webs, smooth pebbles, And secret them away in My pockets for a lean winter,

A winter that has just passed. (But will perhaps return again, For who knows how these things Come and go?) And what is this

You may ask, that I am hoarding? Look, treasure maps to that garden Of books in which we were, for far
Too long, sitting at separate benches,

And admiring the vistas of lakes With ripples, the whistle of a hunter, Bark of a pack of hounds, the pinks Of a cherry orchard, the boom of cannons,

Letters that were read with great urgency By lovers, their assignations in musty rooms, A candle at the table that burnt all night As snow massed at a picture window.

This is where I have somehow, miraculously, (Sniffing that X - pirate gold buried here - Marked on your body) arrived, to lean my spine Against yours, and to read away these Remaining hours of my life with you.