and then the tongue

and then the tongue fell
out of the heart and his fingers
froze, and after all release,
the old fir stirred and rustled
up in the garden, and in the sky
coalescent lines of light crossed
only to meet in infinity, wherever
this may be he didn't know,
a tiny whisper of thought
and doubt kept him standing
for a moment, a second, then he went
inside where he belonged, always
had to stay, out of grace, fallen
out of all ways of yes and no, free,
going home, back to  root and
into the fire which could do no harm
anymore, it was warm and promised
sleep and shelter, nothing burned
and the ashes had gone cold,
the wind took all, ashes, him,
and without weight he moved
in his dreams, floating on clouds,
white and grey and soft-
and after all he agreed to be rain,
for April, for spring, for the roses
and the green and the grass.