She is night, her smile the moon,
Her hair the midnight ocean mists.
Dark her eyes, serene their gaze,
Calm the future in her open hands.
Laughing, the lady lifted my heart;
Mute, reproaches impaled my soul.
Shouting or weeping, no words suffice
To paint the beauty of her fire.
Passionate I have never seen her.
The fault was mine, who never dared
To kiss those lips so full with promise,
Nor win the right to pull her close.
When from evening the light sublimes
And leaves the world wheeling in space,
I think of her with fond regret
For her lost love: for she is night.
—San Diego
1966 to 12/19/2000