dazzling as a field of ghosts.
When fog shrouds the farmland like this, 
I know winter can’t be far behind.

In the distance, hillsides float—
hazy ash to lavender, they menace.
Low-lying clouds cover the pale morning 
a silken Victorian bridal veil.

The cold penetrates,
bone chilling and graved.

May a bride be one of the ghosts,
with her dove gray fitted bodice,
leg-o-mutton sleeves—pin-tucked satin,
crinoline corseted within an inch of lost breath.

Lovely Lady, I will find your headstone 
in the graveyard to garland
with skeins of garlic, plant lilies of the valley
above your beautiful face, sweetheart roses

by the foot of your bed, pour a gravel
of mica and shale the shape of a valentine
to define your breast. When I leave,
the iron gates will clank closed. At last,

in near darkness, two guardian angels shall
blow their bronze trumpets with frozen lips
and lull you to eternal sleep.