I dip my work weary hand into the silver stream tresses
of your ever free, flowing locks;
and still thrill as they pass,
with silken grace,
through my parched fingers.
You raise your still wild lips and a smile spreads like dawn sunlight;
filling the valleys and crevices with light, then warmth.
"What was that for?"
Always, and forever.
The breeze-kissed lake's ripples breathe silver.
A startled moonlight loon grasps the sky without a cry.
Never mind the moonlit leaves
while they fast until daybreak.
— The End —