the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage
to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.
february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.
we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.