grandmother poem

though love repine, and reason chafe
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
you are my companion
in all things not spoken of
a bird sang
there are three ways in which men take
she knows a cheap release
i am in love with high far-seeing places
my son is dead and i am going blind
up from the meadows rich with corn
in an old chamber softly lit
tell me not
brother, i am fire