I speak in frozen language
borne of a forlorn calling
to this deficit of options

like the night’s shade caste to
an enemy of every doubt,
lingering on a path of my own

questioning, have I lost my way?
have the snows of these desert
reaches, clutched in a caliper

of time, rendered me soft
above the sun’s golden grasp?
now superimposed in the memory

of your smile, I find the earth-brown
golds of your eyes lose me in that
time again with you – in that time

whose temperament belies
the Passage of midnight
where I remain
lost within you

© K. James Ribble