and it's a cold evening,
the writings swirling on the wandering pavement—
your silhouette hangs on the tail of the lowering sun,
and gleams, a pale reflection, in the water below;
and crescendos of the waxing moonlight seem more like the
hushed whispers of starlight, like the
hushed silence of forest's night, like the
hushed breathing of your heart's bright, like the
hushed rolling and descent of all that might,
of all that stirs the spirit, and all that bespeaks the pensive, slumbering
winter infinite.