It’s always in the violet hour you call,
when dusk spreads infant-smooth across the skies,
and winter teeters on the wings of Fall.
The poplars change to gold and improvise.
In spite of chill, the memory of you warms.
Unpunctual star, kind winter brings you near,
to break you from your listlessness—transforms
that vagrant whisper I can barely hear
to incandescent words; the subtle burn
of maple leaves to red, a flame of thought
that gives the seasoned birch a breathless turn,
as random dreams within its twigs are caught.