"Song, the Organic Years."
Love, if nothing solid rises like wood
above this scratching, this waxen cane of a tree,
if nothing from this trunk unflowers after long reaching,
if finally the leaf relaxes its bodily processes,
at least we had a hand out to help it
Also you have carried me far on your way into the Earth.
In the prophetic imagery of your tunnels I was satisfied,
and in your lovely arms I lay weeping the truth.
If belief doesn't make up for the long argument of life
still, we made up with what was natural.
Now from the long blind alleys of learning,
and in the winter of metaphor, our arms
reach like branches toward the light.
Our roots go down to clear water.
Our fingers so long counted on are not dry yet.