Old Fashioned Love Songs

 

High, where the branches are thinnest, the
Outermost reaches slender as wands
Bringing lost children back to cradles,
Faint as sighs in the stretched, yellow
Silences of the late afternoon,sharp
As the blade that releases the tide
From the clutches of the moon, so high
That none but the cloud cleaving sun
Would aspire to draw near, but no higher
Would dare to enfold would care to
Lay hold, ensnare and warm the cold
Hard little fingers of gold. That high,
My love, there, where any tree will sing
You the fierceness of its faith, any
Twig recite for you the years and minutes
Of its wait, there, where light journeys
The earth to regain this threshold, there
My sweet, you could trace these countless
Stories of a love foretold.