I could not write to describe you.
Much as I desired to ascribe to you,
The winter and the fall in leaves of thoughts,
All my literary plans tied in frustrating knots,
Frozen in admiration,
Tired, lone, adoration,
Twigs of frail memories,
Icicles on my stories,
Yet I shall wait
Horizon hope to light
In crimson dusk,
Paint your sight.