Reading by Candlelight (poem)

The power has ebbed from this place
       where I lie up alone,
       and returned home--
and in the sibilant space
       of its absolute absence
       I watch the dance
of Frost's mowing, scything voice:

His silent words slice to the bone
       as I writhe to the bite
       of this flickering light,  
a scurrying thing pressed to the loam
       of the kindred, kindly earth,
       absently hurt
by the whispered sigh, the hushed low

word, absently spoken tonight:
       and where is the power
       of that fruitful hour
when Frost, perchance by candlelight,
       culled fated flowers
       for absent lovers,
sighed his words and first began to write?