(no subject)
I taste a fire, embrace
winds knotted with evening's embers.
A better ghost knows no name.
This grove grins crisply and nimble,
tickled to the very thicket's root
as foot and fathom falter, dumbed
by the bleached crimson petal curled oldly
upon herself - a soft rocker - as she slips
with grace through far, misted planks.
Her low-closing portrait warms the west, flutters
soft as a blossom's winking secret, she smiles
faintly folding a final glimmer closed.
Slow swings the shadowed breeze above the drooping trees
and leaves the ridge's silent shape to drowse.
Patchy ships slide slow and full back to mindful port.
Rekindled bootclops crinkle soft, dewy ices,
worrying the crystals and cracking the bleak.
No benchward mountain voices call me near.
Frozen skies, grant me a burden a cage
to warm these aimless paces friendly!
The speech of stars holds no lullaby.