20. I Cannot Write to You Now

I cannot write to you now
where my mind sees you
under your skylight thinking
and stalking the pallid stars
or huddled in silence at your fire
nursing your heart, your brooding,
when here the rain falls cold on huddled gardens
hand-in-hand with the cold morning light
that silvers the leaves of the gardens.

I cannot write to you now from within
the broken shells of these winter days
shut-down to a quick, dampered
to a smoulder of recollections.