Ode

What one loves—

even in war!
The rest is dross.

One can’t love dross.
Or can one?
What one loves

remains, across
from one, on a chair.
It’s my love

for what's sweet and fair
that salves every loss—
my turtle doves—

my gold so rare.
Eyes of dross.
Diamonds in the rust.

In olive groves
treading more and more
ripeness to the core.
Feet of dross!