Repair is going on under moonlight.
But what is the moon?--her holiness now
Linked to imagination? Fireflies flash;
But where is the fine control of my instinct
While this wildfire burns my heart?
From sparks of appreciation, light expands
Upon this moon that has risen at dusk.
From such cold fire comes flame.
She is the bride that holds white roses;
And when she wanes I still see
The dark of her. Forever her precise,
Hurried words, explain the tide going out,
Where I dreamt I knew what peace meant.
Monday, February 24, 2014
copeland morris SWEET RESOLUTION
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment