As I stepped with the blinded women, hand in hand to the wooden terrace
The clouds crawled from the waste like shimmering roses,
And the heather blushed in the snow, pale carmine to a pulse of opal.
I told her of the pluvial gardens
Of the terse white gloam
Of the rotting billows of ashen snow
That blow the silken frost of hemlock so cold
Swathed in a bower of magenta and stone.
My promise to you, Kyle, is that all your poems and short stories will be published. Goodbye for now.