Arriving on the surface, staring back,
I see reflecting eyes first used on me,
and wishing ropes of time would then fall slack,
I realize they must be taut for thee.
I could return to your shores again,
but my head turns instead to blonding woods:
a brook is etching, quietly, the land
with warmer waters. Ask me: “Love?” I could.
O I could love her well because of you,
for she exists along your water’s shore,
where autumn breathes life heavy in me, too,
where footsteps need not know what they are for.
I’ll let the waters run; no, not my mind—
a better use of you, here, I did find.


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