The Vine

To screen this depth of shade that sleeps, Beyond the garden’s shine, On José’s careful strings there creeps A little slender vine.

José is kind ... but age is cold: My laughter meets his sigh. The house is old, the garden old-- Oh, young, the vine and I!

I love the web of light it weaves Across my half-drawn thread; It’s speech to me of waking leaves, While José hears his Dead.

So, ever reaching, tendril-fine, My eager visions run; So, as the long day passes, twine My thoughts, shot through with sun.