Fifty-eight has fields
that now lie fallow,
In which exuberance is well interred.
Fierce desire roams the windrows still,
Tempered by a sense of the absurd,
Yet resonant with what such wishes
Even in the winter that will
In harmonies remote though not unheard --
Grace that wordless lies beyond the will,
Happiness well steeped, if rarely stirred --
The wellsprings run beneath the waiting willows.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.