Snow hurries



the strawberries



from the bush.



Star-wet water rides



you into summer,



into my autumn.



Your cactus hands



are at my heart again.



Lady, I court



my dream of you



in lilies and in rain.



I vest myself



in your oldest memory



and in my oldest need.



And in my passion



you are the deepest blue



of the oldest rose.



Star circle me an axe.



I cannot cut myself



from any of your emblems.



It will soon be cold here,



and dark here;



the grass will lie flat



to search for its spring head.



I will bow again



in the winter of your eyes.



If there is music,



it will be the weather's bells



to call me to the abandoned chapel



of your simple body.





