Woodsman

Windows without number or end

Build themselves into the house of us.

And the days cluster inside

To peak through the pleated panes

At the grey of the hills.

There, I sit on the sycamore branch

Of the east wing of the house,

Eyes on the many facets of shades

As they shelter between the walls.

You half sharpen the hatchet

Against the blade of the shallow day,

Or ardently hit the root

Of my sycamore sapish love.

I feed on the splinters of light

That burst into the darkness

And chew on the comforting thought

Of leaving us vagrant in the core of the forest.