I walked through them in the usual dappled light,
They not turning but I, in the light, turning
Toward birches, as deeper and quieter I went,
Not falling but walking toward the cave where
Greenness lives. I’d known this wood before – over there
Under a tree (not a birch) Tolstoy reading
And Repin painting him reading, an old man
In loose white holding a book raised toward the light
That one associates with birches, I not in
Loose white and in fact I not – coming alone
From church after our wedding or whatever
The ceremony had been, you the usual
Dappled light drawing me on past the reading man,
As deeper and quieter we went, and all in all,
You, I, the reading man, the book, the day,
Were in the book; but not the birches.
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