I have your moon. It rose up over snow as the last rose glow went to mist behind the mountain. I caught it with my bow, arrowed in and reeled it to my side. I have your moon, captive in my mind.
I held your snow. I froze my hand to keep it cold. It made a white hand of mine, and tempted as I was to drop or throw, I chose this glove, and even in my sleep, I held your snow.
I kept your peace. Sweet as forest breeze in fir, a secret peace of trees, I kept the spirit of this place bathed in birdsong even when the birds were gone, even when there were no trees, I kept your peace.
I have your moon, your snow, your peace, soaked into my bones, and when they bury me, all will be released.