The Fifth Season
Not Spring,not late but dark
The Hunter´s Moon is stolen,
Moths take to the woods,
as sparks.
And if I could form the night
And wonder at the polar stars
In my palm, the feel of wind
would be clay.
Trees are trapped in the half light
Unblessed and unconcerned with warmth
The late snow is trapped and full of sleep
as frost.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment