November. I drove through the woods alone.
The chapel had not changed—yellow stone,
pine benches, carven altar, the wide, worn
boards of the floor, pale ceilings adorned
with stenciled flowers. I watched the sun
mark the walls with pattern as it shone
through the western window, low.
Once this was a shelter from the storm
around us. Once, with you, I won
what my heart desired. But you are gone.
On the forest paths, in shadow, once we roamed,
no need for touch or speech. Some
nights we sang by the lake while moon-
light and starlight from heaven’s dome
brushed us with silver. My voice, a golden horn,
blessed the stones with song. Oh, none
but I can praise our music well, or write this poem!
Free and wise and fair were we, born
between the mountains and the sea, who turned
the wild wood into home.
The Qasida is an elaborate form. This is a feeble attempt.