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Sinners
The big mountains sit still in the afternoon light
Shadows in their lap;
The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with delight.
We sitting here among the cranberries
So still in the gap
Of rock, distilling our memories
Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders
Against me goes off with a laugh.
A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wonders
What about sin?--For, it seems
The mountains have
No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreams
As they ought to have. They rise above us
Dreaming
For ever. One even might think that they love us.
Little red cranberries cheek to cheek,