Did you not feel the sweetness of love, my refugee,
under the wild geese heading south or wrapped
in blankets, the world at bay? Where were you secretly
hiding while the ring of mountains, snow-capped,
took us in? And we aired our thoughts, careless of
anything but truth, transparent to one another.
What greater gift from those who hover above
than moments warmed by the heart, or the utter
joy when two converge? But absent behind
a wall of pain, in a fog of doubts you wandered.
You were a hooded hawk, unnaturally blind,
and the rare fragrance of our season squandered.
For your heart's habit left you unaware,
and only I, the dreamer, was truly there.