First snow of the winter, 8th of December.
I think of how I love her, as hopeless as it is,
and as hopeless as I am in my troubled thoughts.
I think of her, wise with words on the page
and full of great dreams, and I love for the world
that I can barely hold onto, being petty and unclean.
The wood stove is hot, and the orange flames
flicker shadows, puppets of ashes, waving tongues
in the darkened living room, shadow plays for my dreams.
I wish she was her, laying with my on this tired old couch,
under the worn comforter, with the shadows plays on us,
and our whispered secrets, and all the kisses that heal a knight.
I think of her wisdom and kindness and the wonders she conjures,
and it consecrates the snow, and the new world born under it,
and make myself worthy of splendors, and of a inexhaustible grace.
The Devil is all to often kicking my ass, and I encourage it with
the blood on my fangs, the white knuckled clenched fist.
But she calls me back, and tells me, I can be an angel, I can be like her.
And in the darkness, the white snow against a black night,
and silver stars and ashen moon, the soft colors and soothing darkness,
I dream of her love, though hopeless, for loving her brings out the best in me.