|
The night stars in Winter
are my deepest secret,
they share their beauties
when we're alone.
Yet last October night
the Milky Way
hung across the sky
like the hoary breath of creation.
And now, as I recall this,
a night chill has dipped
each blade of grass in silver
and promises of Winter.
A hare is moving through the field,
its gait awkward in slow motion.
My thoughts are thus set loose,
as clumsy in their beginnings,
coiled as a hare's thighs - ready to run.
As Autumn mists sweep
off the face of heaven,
the nights will soon be mine again
when thoughts fly up, to step the stars,
to step the stars. |
Also by Lyle McElderry:
Even the Newscaster Cried (after Omagh) - Three
Poems
e-mail
| Most recent articles |
[search db=../articles.db&geSKUdata=0&SKUsort=1&SKUsdir=de&max=5"]
[foundItems]
| [article]
by [author] |
[/foundItems]

|