This Winter Night

At this time there is no sunset

As gossamer grey and white fill the sky.

Many say at this time is their discontent,

But I welcome the shade, the rain and clime.


In this season lies the comfort of this poet

Which is a title hardly I have recognized.

Which for years I considered an epithet.

A title that someday I may recognize.


Every thought of you is like a bullet,

How it penetrates the center of this mind.

Deeply so it digs that trivialities I forget

And there is only you, your face—eyes!


Ah so lovely a face that I do fret

A minor mistake or major lie.

A minor question of why we met,

Or any other silly lies.


So the sky is gossamer grey and white,

But I believe us a future so bright

That angels will envy our winter night.