The leaves are a
rustling surf of trees
as we wait for the
fireflies to ignite.
I am electrocuted by
the muted rush to live.

In the mud gourd corner
tawny frogs are hungry
for their father beneath
these jasmine clouds whose
scent is on the ironwork.
Words embezzle each another.

The dark comes in
for landing right behind
us. The moon witnesses
our truce in a moment
of silence. We address
her charity with
silvery gestures.

Sara Fielder © June 2018