i woke last night
listened for some sound
that might have disturbed
my sleep
the moon hangs low
over the treeline, just
past full,
moonlight floods,
reflected by winter's
snows, to light the
house with a silver,
incandescence
i step down the
stairs and stand at
the picture window
overlooking the
gardens
wrapped against mid-winter,
nighttime chills i see that,
overnight
the pane has been lined with
frost
and i know
reaching to the pane,
the frost is most excellently
cold, and i come alive,
burning with
desire
frost melting beneath my
fingertips
for i know, now, whose
distant thoughts have
sought mine
to wake me
at this new and
wondrous
hour of the morning
looking out the
window
the garden rests,
deep in snow, with
bits of straw poking through
and burlap wrapped
shrubs
imagination brings forth
a summer's growth of
Victorian roses
for my distant love
as she thinks
of me
here, burgundy, to say
she is beautiful to me;
there, the yellow of
joy and friendship;
next to a pink,
a wild rose bush,
the color of gratitude
and grace;
and, of course, the
red,
for passion, standing with the
white rose, the mix which
conveys
unity