She arrives through unseen gates, amid spates
of a stealthy weed: budding coincidence,
which soon will bloom to embrace her memory,
and trace her trajectory in blossoms.
Look at your threshold! There, she tracked frosty,
grinning leaves of this year’s last. There, they yearn,
pressed by hoary gales, to enter where you pace
and rouse you from your absent nightwalking.

Eventually, your rite begins; The sky
she paints a consecrated blue will bleed
into your stale hall, coating what you let lie
and effervescing into your atmosphere.
In blessed air, you may rediscover
your overwhelming instinct to love her.