Dear Marianne,

My love for you

Is an exaltation

Of larks.

I feel,

But frequently

Don’t show

Passion,

Which I suppose

Is like

Cold fires

Of snow-flakes,

And my love

For you

Remains a process –

Dark is turning

Inside out.

My love

Is not shown

Easily –

I feel

So strongly

Yet I cannot

Put it on display –

My love

Is like the

Vernacular

Of leaves

Or early snow,

Beautiful,

But often

Unnoticed,

But if you

Look carefully

My eyes,

Surely,

Must be kind.

Tonight,

When we’re together

We will glide

Over

Pine needle slopes.

Contentment.