When I stepped out to light
I saw her clothes had been tidily
laid on the rocks and things. By
a river too cold all day to wade,
she stood idly ready to know
something. If a rose could be pale
as the light of this moon, I would
blush enough blood back up its stem
and into dim petals to wend and uplift
every soft silken folded shape
with a gift of burst red flame
in a light made anew. And the thorns
would be blackest green in that glow.
There'd be nothing but words, soft
and empty as dew - since I
already knew. We already know.
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