Cowardice

Discomfort sweeps my quiet as a wind Leaps at trees and leaves them cold and thinned. Not that I fear again the mastery Of winds, for holding my indifference dear I do not feel illusions stripped from me. And yet this is a fear —

A fear of old discarded fears, of days That cried out at irrevocable ways. I cower for my own old cowardice. For hours that beat upon the wind's broad breast With hands as impotent as leaves are; this Robs my new hour of rest.

I thought my pride had covered long ago All the old scars, like broken twigs in snow. I thought to luxuriate in rich decay, As some far-seeing tree upon a hill; But startled into shame for an old day I find that I am but a coward still.