acrostic poem

to come so soon to this imagined dark
world that changes under my hand
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
over the river, on the hill
in your arms was still delight
afraid no more, i say
a bird sang
once this soft turf
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
roses and gold
the endless, foolish merriment of stars