by Michael R. Burch
Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs
and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.
The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,
are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.
Keywords/Tags: instruction, sunset, night, skies, wind, sighs, moon, silver, portent, sea, stars