However softly do the heavens surrender to the soft thatching,

Through which a delicate silver scratches the path.

The brittle night kisses the skin

And leaves subtle rosy lipstick


The man is full this summers night

He can almost be seen, waving

Saluting the crystal sky as if to say

A word or two of keen wisdom


Alas, he cannot be heard, the distance too great

Scream into a pillow and lay to sleep

But a night owl he must be

For the night light’s still on.


With no more reserve than a drunkard

She and I part the broken mirror with puerile strokes.

The splendors of a woodland romance

Offering more than can be had in this world.


More swimming than waltzing,

Through the pool of molten silver

The moon has left us to play in

We place each step correctly


Out here only the elders bear witness to passing, She and I,

And  adrift in the Garden,

senseless of the path,

The shadows offer a place to hide.


A niche in the woods is found by I

And anxiously taken up by she

A seat is made away from the world

And begin to float in the warmth of it, she and I.


Drowning in bitter yearning,

That, a liquid chilled by the spring night,

My hand finds its way to hers,

And we together.  Us.