And Cool my Tongue

                                                I.

You, who in Spring 
dug up coffins buried in autumn,
who shook out the shrouds of butterfly wings
and unbound the seeds of summer;

where did you take the ink-veined leaves
that turned ducks south 
and the feathered clouds 
when roots reached deep into winter?

The Lord is my Shepherd, but I still want
water that steams and is freed from ice.
Where, finally, did you spread your bed?
Where do I find you, Lover?

                                     II.

You whose breasts molded summer sand,
those hollows I followed with fingers and hands,
where are you lying beneath the snow?
Where have you hidden your evergreen thighs?

You, my life and my resurrection,
in which rounding mound where cold wind blows
are you hidden now, who once wore clothes 
and took them off to disclose the fruits of summer?

I would be born again. Give me a sign.

                                     III.

The thoughts an old man thinks in snow
are bound to wander in time,
are slow.
But I’m having questions.   

Always before, I walked the hills
where, hidden, beckoned
the sound of streams
and the promise of shaded valleys.

The Lord is my shepherd. I do not want,
but now am cold 
with still bottled passion.

From the valley of death, wild women beckon.
They breaks the rules 
that, forever, are broken. 

God knows, as well, 
that I’m a fool in favor of female enticement.
If God is love, love can’t be wrong.

So bring death on.