COLD HANDS

A seclusion moon splits between clouds,

sheading onto flat fields, fence posts

and tombstones.  A feather soft wind song

plays the leaves.  Birds cease their inflight

bickering.  Stars reflect around the edges

of sleeping lily pads.  A prevailing mist

covers everything like gauze, draping over

stonewalls and stiff brush topped ferns.

The echo of an owl breeches the air, like

thunder without warning; it pulls at the roots

of courage.  I am a beggar to return home

where a fireplace waits for my cold hands.

Night dismisses fear without challenge.

Standing alone, it conquers the land.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s