This Song-Shot Hour

Alexander R. Schmidt

This song-shot hour should hold me fast forever,
A green door closed on my impermanence,
The peace of tree and grass to cool my fever,
And fold me in a fragrant somnolence.

Mine be the rabbit's bed in the wild clover,
Let my throat throb to the quail's rallying call,
So intimately kin I will uncover
The squirrel's covert where the acorns fall.

Though I must leave with the lark's speech unended,
The rabbit sleep again in his own bed,
I will return, as looked-for and befriended,
And hear the words the lark has left unsaid.