Friday, October 2, 2020

full

The moon reaches down

through the iron of

my roots, shining

soft amongst my crown of stars.


I cup my hands to drink my fill,

then I drink again,

we talk the days,

the nights we tell

our secrets and our spells.


Oh becoming One,

oh declaimed radiance 

amorous upon the hunt

the heart takes wings

while the rest takes time.


I look up, eyes unmet meadows

wet with forest breath,

sparking with stellar salt

the moon every blessing met.

No comments:

Post a Comment

the thread

  It’s like any other qualifier, it depends on where the context comes in. Sunny to sunnier, gray to deeper gray. That’s why each sentence t...