Monday, December 5, 2016

Don't talk to me of December

Don’t talk to me of December
when the trees
oh the trees color me
the way I am brown and gold
and I fall still through the air
waiting for wind

The sky is melting
see how it passes the fold
and eases out the wrinkle
like time
swift the night falls

Sundown is like wings now
scraping the edge of the ocean
I can see it beginning the curl
and then darkness haunts the edge
and I wonder where the warm is
hear it slip and unfurl
sail into summer and strip the gauze
from nighttime’s cover and mirage

Sing me spring
skip February this year
lay me across a desert mound
I’ll not breathe until you wrap with web the storm
then glove and pen erect
whisper midnight into warm

1 comment:

  1. Maybe, one day, my muse will return. For now, mt beloved poet, I shall believe you wrote this for many, and I am in that fold. Love you. Sissie