To my tousled haired boy, I saw that skein on your jumper,

and with a fold of my hand I pulled that thread back.

I would wait out a cold winter with just the thought of your eyes,

In the spring I would feed you juniper berries and kiss

your neck, for you smell like the land.

I would wait for all time for no time has measure,

to bring to you pleasure and time can stand still, for as

long as I sing. I would dig my own grave if you gave me that order.

Elusive as heather on fields and on marshes. To the own end

I would march forth, if just once you would hold my old hand.


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