These winter afternoons are messengers of time to me
that glow with silken webs – impressions from the past –
weaving warmer, paler solar shafts that sprinkle, scatter
flashes of experience through baring twigs with reddening leaves.
They transform the world as I look back and mingle
memories – this precious asset – with various thoughts of you:
the way you said or heard something and how
you never let a thing I say flit past your soul.
I extol Love as the highest god, you know,
and have too often found its flame flicker and flutter
with doubt, with caution, with spasmodic hope, élan,
in jubilant swarms, sounds and strains, so on.
You say you care for me and harbor Faith –
whatever should that mean to you and me?
It could mean many things, and I’ll just say,
I don’t love you for your faith, but for your eyes
and lips that shine and speak in flourishing forms of you;
for the voice more sweet and sensible than heaven’s sloppy seams.
There’s more to you than faith, I think, more to your lips and eyes –
I love you for your Self, that is, and love you very much.