Snows of November

like the snows of November,
(lightly, timid in askance)
you will return to me

in due time;
without fail—you will return
(erstwhile)
to me

and my hesitant heart
(retreating, retreating, retreating)
will be a far-off beacon at dusk
to your false ardor, a poetry of obdurate conceit
—whose interval seems unceasing;

All darkness and brooding winds
You twine and spin in savage dance
(quickening, hastening some new spell)

But failing, failing … failing

while this distance increases (curing
past injuries);
the suffering amid our pleading eyes (yours
of forgiveness, mine for freedom)