poetry in motion

love me at last, or if you will not
i go my way complacently
little gate was reached at last
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
we break the glass whose sacred wine
two rows of cabbages
one by one, like leaves from a tree
the fragrance came
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
up from the meadows rich with corn
she might have known it in the earlier spring
tell me