The Dream
I dream of the forest
and the bees crying, “sweet nectar!”
pulling at the frozen leaves.
Body lovely she comes in a sheet of white.
Babies in the forest wail like the wind,
and the broken glass of streams
shivers at her feet; black are her
eyes that once wore wings,
and I am in the shade
where the sun was bright
swinging her lovely body on my knees:
where the sun was once,
musical angels sing, lovely
lady oh lovely lady;
she holds me with her
white cold hand.
Now the bees are struggling in the leaves,
leaves of the wind.