Lines on Hearing That Mrs. Ashdown Was Ill

Your resurrection’s treading a pond’s ice,
     Wending ’round something sounding like
     Wedding belles clearing their throats on the night
     Time led our lesson into flight.
     Bid us reconvene if the fog of Pride
     Might lift its veil and fix all sight;
     Blushing wit conquering Winter’s torn blight
     Pours through our blind masks, mastering
     Back redacting gasps we were meant to sigh—
     Weak’ning smiles, greeting our love-child.

Past the quarry, down The Clockmaker’s mile,
     Barefoot steps hardened with snow-white
     File; aching so bad to take a strange while
     And turn it now into a kind
     Of Renaissance kiss estranged from its frame
     Onto our denial; we fall.
     Wind soars all aglow, auroras bored of
     Alias throw off light to show
     Old Borden’s found the cure for fevered Love
     In your face too pure to touch.