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.