To T., whose poems probe the cold

I fear the places I might never reach
In you—where stars encircle arctic capes
Or ice shelves stretch on, winklessly unthawed
Or oceans whirlpool round an unseen God.
But, love, I sink into your easy beach
And stretch where the wisteria tendril drapes
In dappled summer plats around Cape Cod;
I stroll beside you where the sun is broad.
Between the stoic polar ends of earth
Abides this antidote to chilled extremes:
Say, will you stay, for what a season’s worth?
My spirits bathe beneath your gentle beams—
So linger; pause your journeys past the pale;
Kiss your Calypso . . . let her stash your sail.