to a widow grieving

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To a widow, grieving


Enduring these bleak acres of the night
and yearning for sweet fire on the snow,
to shiver 'til that first thin glimpse of light
is blasphemy no honest soul should know.

Encircled by chill phantoms from the past
who have no way of coming back inside,
the lucky learn the only thing to last
is grief, who makes an eager, honest bride.

And so to you, sweet sister, in your bed,
across these fields of ice, devoid of dreams,
your tears have turned to foxprints in my head,
to give me transport on these frozen streams.

Now we've howled from one moon to another,
I tire of brother. I oughta be your lover.


Philip White

























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