The Weak Light

flickers across the bed.
I reach for you,
brush the hair from your face,
pull up the blanket over
your bare shoulder. The strands
of hair at your forehead
are mostly white. In this light,
that is mostly darkness,
I feel free to kiss your eyelids. 
                  I remember

the mist rising from a river
one early morning drive,
years ago, along
the interstate. White
hair in the gray light. Where
was I driving then, and who,
now, is painting your hair
strand by strand, the color
of mist rising over
a forgotten river?