The lights are blinding, row after row,
They find us heartbroken,
Naked in the snow.
A tree, a bridge, a moon of red,
Paint me a picture, she said.
I labored away, toiled as told
a blue shimmer, a fog as cold —
But when I came to, from amongst her graces
Nothing was left but a dim facet faded
That I should see her in my dreams
Is not a penance but a theme.