Violet

A purple temperature within my gloves— For this night, the bleak snow is on and on, Which I am gathering your meaning of— For our knit in-between is slowing, gone. I'm to your losses; snowflakes lavender, And straddling the fence, the timbre aches— On your mauve dress, redeeming ice sheets turn; In such moments, solid again, we're made. My own part in skies— a paralyzed blue, Where dark clouds wreathe in and out of interest; Know the true day will dawn and set with you— Sun's beg on rolling stones for violet.