mother poem

sad are they who know not love
it was the autumn of the year
up from the meadows rich with corn
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
the air is full of dawn and spring
with her hair flaying wildly
good woman
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
glass-blower of time
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
and how could you dream of meeting
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
music i heard with you was more than music