Untitled (in the Greenwood)

(from the vaults)

Light through the trees – this is the norm –
green-dappled, russet, gold;
it plays across your naked form
like divinity poured into a mold.

It can’t be just me who sees in your face
beauty, not just my moon-struck dream,
though you’d deny this evidence of grace:
your faceted reflection in a stream.

You are no dream – a woman flesh and blood –
your life so full into spills into my soul –
and lying with you in this wood,
I feel, for the first time, whole.

I am no dream either, manhood is all I claim,
and you make that enough – no irony, no shame.


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