I think I must have told him my name was Juliette,
with four syllables, you said, to go with violette.
I envisaged the violet air that presages snow,
the dark campaniles of a city beginning to blur
a malfunctioning violet neon pharmacy sign
jittering away all night through the dimity curtains.
Near dawn you opened them to a deep fall and discovered
a line of solitary footprints leading to a porch:
a smell of candle-wax and frankincense; the dim murmur
of a liturgy you knew but whose language you did not.
The statues were shrouded in Lenten violet, save one,
a Virgin in a cope of voile so white as to be blue.
As was the custom there, your host informed you afterwards—
the church was dedicated to Our Lady of the Snows.