The green man stretches out a lover’s hand With triumph of the spring. Ripples ring the reflecting pools Neath great oak fingers drinking deep. Once I sought his hand in hope--- That new life would grow with me, Now there is but an old crone listening To the silly sparrows sing. What becomes of me? Thoughts and actions, deeds No longer needed---restless, still? Tasks unrewarding, tedious and boring, No longer crumbled by lovers heat Longing for deep passionate touch, Crushed by overwhelming loneliness, Yet, he returns at winter’s end. He has called in his turn, Just as my story spins, How will it end and when, In his youthful eyes is seen The coming of the leaves, Then he is gone again, As I empty my cup and turn To those who have gone before Knowing come Walburga’s night that I will face thoughts and ancestors From ground not far from theirs The web was woven long ago----- Have I truly drained the cup and sucked in breath, Have I refused to go away?