The painting under which now rests
 a candle lit,  
 a body, in some repose
 but not yet fully away.. 

For just now Orion poses,
 snow clouds set off the crescent
 but do not, in the end,
 let down their blanket. 

In fact later, both mine 
 and her visage  
 are same, white.
 She hanging there above, me below. 

The vine, with still, chilled fruits
 arches its mature way up
 to frame a Korean Fir I set.
 My work here is done, sleep.