The Moon Is Hers

Dawn has
Drawn
An orange
Flare
Upon the fringe
Of her hair

Her stare
Is the only sound
In these silences;
Its song surrounds
Her like her irises
Belong in green and white—
Seen in my dream
By a pond of moonlight

Where

Summer tendrils
Become lily pale

As angels fill
The plentiful still
Of her beautiful trail

And in the day
There’s comfort
The hurt
Fades away
Unfurling
Like grey
Mist
From which this
Regal girl emerges
With
Dark purple lips,
Pearls in her fists

And wide open
Mackerel skies
Reflecting off
Of her soft
Emerald eyes

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed