Wandering

Aug. 17th, 2007 10:41 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)
[personal profile] gryphons_quill

I often walk on warm nights,
follow the moon's trail until
I find a cloud enclosing me
in prickle-skin cold.

The moon is broken
into a million drifting droplets.
I am lost in light,
silver without source or center,
brilliance without end.

An owl's hoot is everywhere,
soft, thrilling, insistent--
directionless. If I were to speak
the fog would carry my words
all the way to the moon.


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