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.