We walk the frost-tipped eventide
On aisles of snow-bent grass
And crooked trees stretch shameless; wide
Their naked wantonness
The low moon falls against the lawn
Where frozen puddles lie
As twilight deepens its blue yawn
Inhaling remnant sky
It fans its thoughts on deadened air
And bends the earth into a prayer
Your breath is summer on my skin
Your fingertips, a hearth
Your lips, shaped in a soft half-grin
Bring heaven-thoughts to earth
The disrobed trees in clumsy truth
Our hidden wants descry
You take my longing in your mouth
And peel away the sky
The moon its subtle vesture spills
In silver blankets on the hills
The wind, a drifting troubadour
Croons a slow melody
It sweeps across night’s gleaming floor
In gallant chivalry
The little breadth of toil and tears
That stole away the noon
Dissolves like hazy yester-years
Beneath the flaxen moon
But we are not aware of things
As beggars taste the wine of kings
J~
I love thinking of the wind as a troubador. Many beautiful lines here, Janet.
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