the frost of ill-remembranced things

sacred whims, foresworn this night,
we banked them in the dark
to hide from sight a blessed light
in which we shield our mark.

a print that hands and solemn bands
can not and never steal.
a kiss, amiss, and yet in bliss,
to, by this choosing, seal.

in autumn I did drop my plumes
and slowed to sullen pace,
and barely made the sheltered rooms
to sleep a winter's brace.

and comes the spring on powdered wing
to wake me from my grave,
to test the mettle of this thing
we fought and sought to save.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.