I think I must have loved you
beneath the holly bush
Where red fire grew
and silver voices hushed.
I think I learned and knew and pined
a different form of word,
one which I was free to call you mine.
A whisper, still, you so heard.

Ever on, the things of sleep and fur all stirred.
For winter's numbing breath
was far past faith's deceit
of mere comfort, ease, and depth.
Beyond linen sheets and rosy cheeks
and you at peace with I.
So I sit through season's wistful sorrow
frost and birth's sweet lies.
To see the day bleakness says its last goodbye,
and you awake me a 'morrow.