that is the way

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Dear, that is the way.

That’s the too-dark-deep
    Through any forest;
          The way is finger-finding.

The way is awakening
  From some winding-away-sleep
      To see a thing far-beyond you.

You could still keep
          Hold on a sing-song voice—
    And its snow coming down—

    As if each flake were unwound yarns
In a storybook,
      Or signs from a sky that thunderingly warns.

But look upon its melted water
          O’er jagged brook into strife,
  Breaking on the stones:

    Hidden there a leveling of ice-field;
Life left in the bones,
      Like splintered-shield-memories.

An avalanche—
      As breeze through shattered branches
          Of surrendered glances—

    That hot-spring-blanch
Of warm blush on your cheek,
      Feeding a far-off ranch of dreams:

Where you might tomorrow find
          Some cozier comfort
    In redemptive streams

Of second chances.

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—for my Nonny