Night
Slides under door jambs,
pouring through windows,
painting my room black.
This evening was spent
watching old movies.
Song-and-dance actors
looping through gay,
improbable plots.
All my plates are put away,
cups hanging on hooks.
The towel is still moist.
I blow out cinnamon candles,
wafting the air with spice.
Listening now to heat
sputtering and dogs
barking at winds.
Wintry Bouquet
This December
during wide nights
hemmed by blackness,
I remember roses.
Pink yellow red violet
those satin blooms of June.
We must wait six months
before seeing blossoms,
touch their brightness
crush their scent
with fingertips.
Now there are only
ebony pools of winter’s
heavy ink of darkness.
Dipping into memory of
my lips touching petals
tantalizing sweet buds.
My body longs for softness.
I glimpse brilliant faces of
flowers right before me as I
burrow beneath frosty blankets.
Bracing against that long, cold
nocturnal of wind and shadow.
Nightscape
Fog horns sound though
air soaked in blackness.
All evening long listening
to hiss of trucks, cars.
Shadows brush across walls
as trees trace their branches.
Gathering and waving
together then swaying apart.
While I sleep, stars glide
through heaven making
their appointed rounds in
ancient sacred procession.
Dreams as smooth as rose
petals spill into my mind
growing wild patches in
this dark garden of night.
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