Gentle Advice

 
Poetry breathes outside
but I’m in my corner,
fast beneath your crucifix,
a heartful of inquiry.
You look on tenderly
 
Where in this depth
and what in this nature?
Roots of long ago spring fresh
in a changed garden
 
What is me
and what is dream
and what is your glory?
 
You, friend, know me
If I have ever loved, you know;
If this pain is foolishness, you know.
 
With gentle, compassionate laughter
you speak me patience
As if you felt no suffering
on your cross
I say, man is dead
and poetry’s dead
and love is dead, in me.
You speak me patience,
who are alive
 
Every branch of being
trembles in the winter
to feel a secret sap:
goodness, peace,
no fiber useless,
hibernation,
waiting for the spring.             
 
(1960s)