And now this love must go to sleep: alive
but only in suspension, knowing bliss
as autumn quietly slays a billion leaves.
An early hibernation helps derive
some pleasure from the winter’s creeping chill.
Our bodies breathe on as we die each night,
lethargic suns failing to muster light.
Throughout the solstice, lie in wait. Be still:
my faraway love, this spring is not for you,
despite the birdsong winging through the air.
We must be shy again, as at our start,
the cusp of summer warming love anew:
entwining ecstasy, perfuming hair,
thirsting for touch, for warmth to reach the heart.