the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.
are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?
the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller
and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones
and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.
the sky weeps white.
but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.
...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)