THAT NIGHT ON LOOKING GLASS

I sat on the terraces of the evening

marveling at this beautiful girl, her child-wide eyes
wild at the prospect of love I was carrying
with my hands,
the falling water-sounds around us
grim as iron bells,
a comet, whirling fire, impassive as the night,
rode on my gaze
and I felt her near me, close as my breathing.

And the sacred air rose within the water-spray,
surrounded our bright links of flesh,
stood like a rock in the naked current
under the rigid chains of the wearing day
and the sweeping music swung in the forest
the night hung steadily in my hands,
a night of long stars
strong and dark in the music of memory
to its far corners, until the fir trembled and sang.

Her everlasting eyes redeemed this wilderness
that evening, while I was lost in a dream
where the gliding earth took a long plunge
down the slope of Looking Glass Falls,
and light rain fell across the river
the mountain and waterfall are to her
like a memory of mist and starlight,
like the falling water's voice
singing in another ear
and the moon warmed this momentary valley.

The swift river still runs on
like a twilight blessing
among the immortal dawn winds
that round another pair of lovers
who rise, in the dark waters, whirling
now even the white light
stands beyond dark hills
among a heavier blaze
flaming like an orange moon
and the closet of night
shuts us in
like a dream
long ago, in a remembering room.