Violet
A purple temperature within my gloves—
For this night, the bleak snow is on and on,
Which I am gathering your meaning of—
For our knit in-between is slowing, gone.
I'm to your losses; snowflakes lavender,
And straddling the fence, the timbre aches—
On your mauve dress, redeeming ice sheets turn;
In such moments, solid again, we're made.
My own part in skies— a paralyzed blue,
Where dark clouds wreathe in and out of interest;
Know the true day will dawn and set with you—
Sun's beg on rolling stones for violet.
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