On Going . . .
Under a witch’s moon
blows the wind that blows within
she sings her songs
in out of tune
In her troubled heart
sorrow blows across her soul
on a restless storm
of
going . . . . away
Her slender shoulders carry weight
unmeasured
of you
who looks inside and weeps
and
God you were a friend
and
she cries
a river winding
through valleys dark
where you have gone
and
Where endless deserts end
sand catches between her toes
scuffing pretty plumes
of prismed moonlight
into dust
Copyright © Jill Martin | Year Posted 2006
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