So Near a Saint

So Near a Saint

You seemed so near a saint that,
seeing a fledgling fallen, broken,
hard upon the ground,
your heart was rent.
And in your face I saw you mourn its loss,
some small dilution of that coming Spring.

And I see that windmill even now,
all black against the summer sky,
its sails blown through,
black crows carping in all its bones.
Still I feel your melancholy sigh,
like the ghost of winter's moan,
as you wept in silence for its shame,
all high upon that hilltop day.

When a moth beat breathless at our glass
in dread of cold descending night,
you thought to give it warmth and light.
You opened out the moon-splashed pane
and brought it home, to death; then cried.
There was no mystery why I loved you.

Enough said.

Little felt your infant bird, soon dead,
though you wept to see its blood run wet;
and windmills need no woman's crying,
or giddy moths a flame to die in,
yet now you cannot see me through the ice,
nor hear my faint, unending scream;
cannot see me staring still, amazed, uncomprehending.
Truly then, you were no saint,
nor I a godless sinner.