As tangy air swerves through my whistling mind
that gently rouses, oh ‘pon fair moonlight,
I raise my cheeks to taste the wind, refined
through quivers, of the ever- threading night.
And copper-like, my senses, mildly clothed
with fibrils circling traces on warm flesh;
this zephyr cool, guiding a haze provoked
by mystery held by sky’s roll, afresh.
And dusk will print windchimes ’ fore new dawn
while starlit guardian just bids me still.
My breath thus feed the hours with time reborn
as tender waft on fleet, sings soft goodwill.
That I, a child of dew, shall testify
as witness to rare embrace of billow’s sigh.
Sonnet In The Wind, Poetess Darkly