And write my words
In India ink,
black on white,
barren and bleak
as this chill November night.
I could be crisp
And whisper
With the dry rustle of leaves
Beneath the hard flame
Of stars
Welding the sky
To the trees.
But with you…
I’d be gentle
As the first kiss
Of snow
Wetting your eyelashes,
Covering you
With a soft moonlit glow.