Dreamt

I dream, but what I dream I don't remember
And what I do remember I don't dream.
I think of snowfall in a bright December
Turning the city white as clotted cream,
And her outlined against the field, her hair
Drifting across her face, caught by the breeze
(Except for what was stuffed into her cap with care)
And, half-wet, left out for the chill to freeze.
I think of how she smiled in the snow,
And how I smiled back against the pain;
Of sighs, of wishes dangerous to know
And tree-limbs growing bent against their strain.
That world was wonderful - but as things are
I do prefer this not-dream-world by far.