Thank you.

Whom do I thank
for your sweet arms
that hold me up
so I can be a good pear,
for your round eyes
that I, a buck exhausted,
drink from in the deep wood,
for the third hand you have grown
only for me, that caresses the heart
I have grown only for you?

My love I thank you,
and not the spirit, not the muse,
not the creator, not this kind and open hour,
not the earth and air of our home,
not what was written long ago,
nor the bright and blank book before us.

My love I thank you.