The Foundling

When once the conifers, like spires so high,

pierced the blue and winged vault, silent and round,

I sought myself, ignoring my love’s renown

in our heedless passions of stone and sky.

A cedar waxwing spoke, a feathered sigh,

from lofty rafters falling, such a sound!

Summer ran her heedless way—she is unbound!

Yet reap the fields of tears, for he shall pass by.

The threshing floor is here, the wheat and chaff,

cast down what was lost among the cold stones.

Behold my penance in the broken glass,

by the sigh of a raftered bird, atoned.

I am a shadow of the first blade of grass,

A foundling, secret, ‘neath the cedared throne.