Hanging her head in the night:
As if to hold onto the memories, the shadows on her wall;
The sun had revealed them to her,
The moonflower.
Clinging to the branch her vine so tightly twists around,
And gazing down,
Her desperate song her own light
Dripping, honey-like,
And just as sweet,
Though the wind blows deaf
And will not hear.
A tendril reaching out –
A viny lock of hair,
Or a leafy finger –
But her stars are blind
And will not shine
For her,
The flower of the moon,
The daughter of the stars.
A petal and a leaf,
Curling up into herself.
She had blossomed in a night
Before her eyes had frozen in the ice
Of winter.
She had melted in the spring,
Summer drought then left her thirsting,
The leaf refusing to grow
And seeing only grey.
And the snow,
It came too early,
Autumn rains barely enough to lift her eyes
To the skies
That turned grey before their time.
But she knows the ground,
Her roots lie in that soil,
And she tells herself, the ground, at least, is constant.
Not the sky, that weeps,
And freezes and burns
In turn.
Nor the oceans, nor the streams,
Nor the trees
Or her own leaves,
That whither in the cold.
She takes her refuge in the earth,
And her rose-colored dreams.
She, the flower of moonlight,
The daughter of the stars,
And the child of her memory.
http://www.darkpoetry.com/node/work/79251
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