I died of death

And never knew it,

And grew to be young

And died of it,

And grew to be wise

And died,

A bit,

Of that too.

But I shall not be old

Nor ever die of it.

 

Today

When you took my hand

In winter

To tell me –

Through pore and vein,

Not words –

That summer exists always,

I felt under my shirt

For my heart

And damp clod clung to my fingers;

I was sad

And I was alive.

For once

I was certain

That I would not die of life.

Perhaps the full winter of death

Has come

With that secret saboteur summer,

That is ever in hiding

And never goes away.

I can die of summer.

But, this was supposed to be a poem of love,

That most secret cause of death.