The kindness of a winter’s day
Was mine before I knew
The color in a lover’s eye
Was all the color of the sky
And then a more of blue
The softness of a whisperbreeze
Now feels too rough to me
When I compare the silken soft
Of fingertips, the precious slope
Of our symmetry
And now the birds can never sing
A half so happy air
As that my lover spoke to me
By being—oh, the symphony
That was when she was there
1987; 1996