Hope is the moon seen through
skittering clouds
or leaves that have been dusted
by Midas
or maybe by Ms Borgia:
all dusty,
almost brittle red and gold.
It waxes and wanes
and hangs smugly
in a charcoal sky,
like the half smile of a
drunken god.
It is nothing like the Sun
that rules in splendor
and burns
I respond to its tidal rhythms
An eternal dance
that moves me,
batters me,
carries me.
Even so,
I see it only through
the boughs of trees
and skittering
clouds.
No comments:
Post a Comment