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.