Tryst

Come to me in the baby hours of morning . . . when the moon is a full grown woman letting her platinum veil trail from heaven . . . before high hills toss a yellow sun into the sky like a boy with a rubber ball Let us meet beside a cool tall pine with stars in her hair . . . only a pine . . . the thin green fingers of grass . . . and the small hushed voices of woodfolk I must sense you as you come to me . . . the warmth of you like a rolling prairie fire . . . scaring flame . . . eating into my mind with sharp hot teeth Moon slivers, sun parings, a basket of ripened dreams . . . show me these lovely things again . . . We shall not speak, you and I, nor let flesh touch flesh . . . the eagle of silence must not fly away . . . nor the pot of passion be set to boil We shall watch the slow treading slave night carry a burden of a million stars on his black back and I shall know you, too . . . are a star . . . a pine seeking the moon . . . the green fingers of grass pointing the way And when the gray slants of day scourge night from the sky I shall look around but you will be gone . . . the moon mother . . . and you . . . gone . . . how can a fighting man-day know dreams . . . peace . . . rest . . . the silence of night things? Yet there will be other new baby mornings, moon kissed, star cradled . . . knowing this . . . I too shall go . . .