Late afternoon early winter intones silent – nature’s melancholy breathes aquiet chill adorned on the best of days by cold sunshine, on the dullest, gray shrouded landscapes, widow’s shawls.
An impatient moon rises
A sliver of unripe honeydew
Waits to be applauded
Sadness perhaps at the end of a winters’ day as if it knows it will never return; never have the chance to redeem itself in warmth. I, a traveler on its receding back am enveloped in night fall.
She sneaks like a back-door lover
Enters the room of sky
Avoids clouds that want to erase her
In the waning light I am in love with the sky, watch the change from softness to softness; light to dark, comforted by its constancy like a prayer to gods both frightening and intimate.
She rises cupping her belly
Shyly so no one sees
The pale fullness she embraces