Early Sunday morning, she stands in honeyed sunlight,

Aurora gaining strength as spring progresses to make

The morning golden and soft, even as the cold remains.

Her, the woman standing in the sunlight, and I,

After prophetic dreams and fitfully sleeping

And clinging to each other in the cold,

Feel holy again, as the sun rises on The Lord's Day,

Her silken hair veils her distant and tranquil eyes,

Her Romanesque face, her prideful and detached smile.

The soft golden beams and the cold morning, out here,

Staying in a house on a lonesome state highway in Appalachia,

The last remnants of fae glamour make her harsh and angelic.

As she stands suspended in the light, I take the picture I will

Carry with me throughout the war, making a devotional icon

Of the lover whose aloofness and tenderness muted our ghosts.