Sunday, July 07, 2013

Arbors

Terpsichore's on tree-tops
swaying gently
in moonlight.

She reins in the rough arc
of nascent limbs,
light as plucked feathers
in a gale.

The forest is drunk
with insentient song.

Ghosts of melodies
haunt your ear,
late traveler.

Unsettled by life's absence,
it's not your hollow breast...
Some youthful egress?
Give it a name.
Still bewilderment
keeps you wakeful
'til pale moon's
panned away
by morn's gold.

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