Out Of Love

Dawn appears like a guest
arriving late for a dinner party
and, now, only half-expected
after our long vigil.
Its thin milk light
rinses away the darkness
and reveals everything to be
the way we left it.

This winter will be cruel,
but it will not kill me;
though, perhaps, in not killing me,
it will prove itself all the more cruel.

I have heard
that untold numbers of living things
make their homes in hedges,
and that each new pair
builds its nest with the bones and hair
of its forbears.
The dawn suggests that this is true,
for in its light I see
brambles bone pale with frost
and vetch like a hoary head.
I have found
that to look at one thing closely
is to see all that there was
and might have been
within a single moment,

a whole lifetime in a day,

which is why I turn to you
and cradle your bones in mine.
This will not kill us,
but it will make us wiser
a gift that I am sure
is not given solely
out of love.



by Frayach ni Cuill



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