Here, at the edge of winter,
you came to pluck some solitude
from the branches of this unsung tree.
You've been here before.
Again and again you've been here.
At the edge of the heath where the woods begin,
you seek this gorgon's shadow
and reach to her naked fingers,
begging for fruit.
But every time, the sounds of man prevail.
Soaring higher than condors
comes the sussurus of traffic.
Ghosts of old lovers nip at your silhouette,
that skin-prison under its cloak.
For the moment,
you have forgotten the respite that came
from the walk to the edge of the wilderness.
You have forgotten even why you came
and turn back, confused,
to your castle
and to the destiny that awaits you.