And slow and sure the willows sleep;
a breath amiss in songs that weep.
They rise above the creeks and sway;
the gibbous moon slips, there, between
the stars alight in dreams of sheen;
reflect themselves, still, cold and chaste ~
rejuvenate that flaccid pace
of days so somber in decay.
I walked alone when fields were green,
along a path with arum seam;
white doves were diving, songs entwined,
and strung their chords to wind-swept skies.
And slow and sure the willows sleep;
a breath amiss in songs that weep.
Ron & Myra
24.09.2006
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