Snuffed, like a candle by the weeping wind, your tendrils drift
Unchained, unwoven, melody of mist on silver sage
Un-etched in ink against a blotted page
Where do you rove, oh, dear and darling wisp?
The echo of a moment almost kissed
Have you found for yourself a home, sweet home?
Do you fly now; free as a kite with no string
Or did you plummet to the dirt like a bird with a broken wing?
Will you be a vagabond, forever to roam?
Are you happy; my dear, darling almost-poem?
I would have held and shaped you, sweet shadow-thought
But you slipped away beneath my glance
Melting to the brawny breeze, now you dance
Far from my touch; or have you perchance been caught
And by the pen of another poet, taught?
© Janet Martin