Our snows arrive, winter roars on with ice,
breaking old elms and smothering these paths,
still altering the river and the earth
and slowing our December interplay.
Between North wind and drifts there is no dance.
We were not born for this. Frost follows thaw
condemning us to life within lit walls
when all should be a blossoming. We knew
but yesterday, Priapus in his realm,
Venus in hers, parting the laurel hedge
and St. Fiacre irrigating beds
of roses, lilies, goldenrod: my love,
who knows what sun will break above the ledge
tomorrow, or what moon illuminates
our lovemaking at dawn? Therefore, consume
me with your ardor, passionately weave
a tapestry of dancing limbs, our two
bodies in motion, reminiscent while
the earth outside, still and forgetful, cloaks
all memories of spring beneath its snows.
If you've any comments on this poem, W.F.Lantry would be pleased to hear from you.