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Poem


The peeping stars steal
the winning smiles of the moon
at the earth draped in its gilt,
like a pen takes control of heavy minds.
Midnight hours stroll
in the murmuring silence of the crickets,
like faint leaves in autumn end
strewn on shriveled pathways; or atoms of
unused talent in the bare furrows of mind.
Fireflies like vagabonds spark
the chillness of the night, like fond memories
to the cerise of dreams.
And the intangible shadows of invested flora,
in their night sheen, stare like addresses 
on letters.

The clouds--all that remained of the day--
with their hues camouflaged by silver--
idle in  the yonder skies. And the gentle rays
pierce their recesses fitting them to 
mellow the whiteness.
The hills trod by lions and their friends
in drowsy yawns closing in nature’s shelters,
echo the tlots of hurrying feet of those 
settling in afar mud homes.
Betwixt the hills run streams glazed by
cooling flakiness of snowy air
melting the night’s silence into a delicate glee,
like mercy flowing thru stark reality melts
the latter and its hard core deeds.

This panorama spread out so grand
evokes a lyrical poem—
a poem of morrow to celebrate any night.

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