For a Birthday by Jane Cooper

Something is dragging me backward
to my fifth year
when I began my quarrel with God.

I step into the morning
after the first frost--

The beeches are radiant,
shaking their bones clothed in honey,
shivering in delicious fear.

If only we too turned golden
at the first stroke of cold.

I shall walk by the river in the sun,
studying transparency
and the book of impersonal love.

No comments:

Post a Comment