I have never loved you more than the day I saw silver strands weaving their way through your hair, like light reflected off the smallest snow-covered streams speeding surefooted down from the mountains.

I remember the morning star shining in your eyes the day you turned and looked at me in the aftermath of sorrow, and how, in that moment, my heart laid its flowers at your feet.

And now I see you, in my mind’s eye, in an inner chamber, burgundy breastcloth threaded in gold, sarong folded graceful and firm about your hips;

and your bare feet and ankles dance in the loveliness of a dream, as they once did, in the dark, above the city.

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