Infecund Souls

This is an epoch-making time, looming 

Death out of the sodden windows, peeping 

Excruciation and endurance, sobbing 

Infecund souls with no syrupy rain.

Pain makes us joyful, devouring 

A blue-florid flower with surfeit and desire. 

Winter thrilled us, hovering over the crumpled trees 

With a brisk bellowing wind and snow-fall, birds stopped coming over the battered garden, 

And moved on in the undiscovered country, into the deep seclusion, 

And sat far awhile on the bare floor, untidy glasses and bemoaned for an hour. 

I am mighty Time, the source of creation and cessation, and when we were dull seeds stirring, gestating through time and in time, 

My love, took me out on a blue wheelbarrow,

And I was wondering and cold. She said, you, perhaps you, languished. And drowned deep.

In the snow-capped mountains, there you will find. 

I love you, much of the time, and leaves you for gluttonous time.