I have no metaphor for this late night visitor
who flies like night owl searching for unwary
skittering along a forest floor, dancing in delight
at broad-faced moon.
Why does she smile so, knowing what goes on
beneath fingers of trees, splayed out to hide
what happens in bald-faced reality.
I am here, in the scuttle and muddle middle of it
again and again, just when I think I have pinned
enough stars in god’s heaven to hold me up from it.
I am pale-faced wanderer simply waiting for another swoop.
In a list
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"I am pale-faced wanderer simply waiting for another swoop." Sighhh...It descends like a silently falling star, its light slowly fading from the horizon...we mourn its falling with every breath, every sigh, every tear...
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