A canvas moon paints a
broad open field with silver dust.
Fair opening breezes test tree tops
and back porch chimes.
The solitude is furious with quiet.
Night fires, crackling lamps of light
form great red embers
breathing heavily under
thin layers of gray ash.
Moisture slips into the mouths of
waiting roots; it is the appetite of trees
and all things alive.
The skin of earth breathes deep.
Night folds back its cool blankets.
Day starts.
Roger Singer 