They rise beneath a haloed moon: the gusts
Fragrant with ice, with pollen grains of snow,
With spice of buried hay from long ago,
With river-chill, with fallen cedar dusts,
With tang of wood-smoke aspen, and the lusts
Recalled from stained-glass canopies aglow
With maple scarlets. From the past, I know
The long-remembered scent a lover trusts.
I breathe your essence of complexity,
Your personal perfume of autumn cold
And winter warmth, your mellow moods, your sauce,
Your fascinating femininity
And all the balm of kisses unforetold,
That memory brings back to stir my loss.