Hearth of Quiet
come midnight, the tresses of fields
yawn to spill the soil of
some grains of moonlight
far more tranquil than the toil
of morning's grating hands,
and in this spark of a moment
altars are held on palms that
grew flowers in basins of
sweet sweat, sweet sweat..
maybe, night is still and temperate
to lull the mind wired from
the sickle of many a destitute hours
bills flying, laundry spilling, kitchen
swarming.. a drape of senility
wraps the moon.. and all is
home to the hearth of quiet
unsurpassed.
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