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Light Saint Yellow's Gate
Through Light Saint Yellow's Gate I've fled,
Winter leaves, musty, dead.
Softened colors long since bled.
Dew-lipped Eurydice, imagined wed.
Little birds have little aught
But their love of being little.
One ought have a little bird's love
But many have naught.
No chronology was possible
Time ebbed and flowed
Like water under a moon;
She'd turn the clocks to face the wall in every room.
Description was equally unlikely.
Blonde hair swept back.
High forehead, arched brows.
Eyes in wonder round.