Say, my love, this world is whole:
a windfall here beneath the bole.
Or hold, my love, love’s time is now:
a flourish, then the fruit along the bough.
But O, my love, how hard to hold
bare thoughts of love in winter’s cold.
The apple limbs are bent and gray.
My love, O Christ, my love is far away.

-
The Winter Orchard
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