Sky polished, the mirror of night
blinks its button-lights, twilight
surrendering to the shock
of crescent moon. An owl spooks
the cedars leaning with the wind,
upper branches creaking in the hickories.
What can’t be seen in midsummer shadow
is the latch that locks the phantoms
of past desires. Stare into this darkness.
The gate is barred – for now.
Let the dormouse sleep and the hare hide
as they will. Watch midnight sneak in,
tiptoe through fog filling the fields.
Don’t lose your way.
2024-01-01