Three Years

I heard the wind in the treesThe stir of the leaves in the white birch topsThen sat alone with my past till dawnCrept over the edge of the leasAnd a dull red line was drawnIn the East. There memory stops.

We do not follow our livesAs the almanacs run. I lived that nightThree years in the past and three to be . . .As foam that the sea-wind drivesMy thoughts sped on—three years and three,Marked by this lock of white.