She walks in sunshine, with shadows of friends
Thrown by white painter pants and a whiter smile,
Like sun-glint snow, a brilliant prospect
So near to my heart, my feet grow cold.

There is cold fire in the night sky
Outlining Andromeda, chained to the rocks by the spiteful god.
But I am no Perseus, with no myths to offer
In an age of science which speaks of red shift
As the light fades away, obscured by clouds,
When we had presumed to gaze at heaven.

Yet myths endure as men grow old,
And even time snaps back and forth without regard to space.
For there you are, as dazzling as a dream
Which shows that beauty is so much more than a smile.
And time is no event horizon
Which casts all might-have-beens to darkness.

My feet actually grew cold at the reunion when I found myself face-to-face with a lovely classmate whom I had forgotten I had had such a hopeless crush on all those years ago. Boom! It came rushing right back, at least for a moment, which is one of the beautiful things about a reunion. I figured I would have some fun with it, and write a poem. I did not leave many breadcrumbs to identity. The painters pants are a recovered memory from over 40 years ago. Perhaps she never even wore them. But there is an oblique reference to Stars for A-bars.