The clumps of fir flame like burning coals.
A flight of crows pass quickly overhead,
 (like our quarrels).
Yet a secret melancholy lies
 on our hearts,
the shadow of sickness and the fear
 of worse to come.

The night is solemn as an organ tone.
The moon is full.
Love hurls us high in the air
 like children in a blanket.
She watches me asleep and broods.
She dreams of strawberries in winter.