Dusk falls softly into indigo.
The moon, no more than just a misty hue
when shining in those skies of sunlit blue
becomes a golden sphere
of light’s reflection,
enlightening in gentle splendor
everthing that lives beneath its glow.
Impenetrable, light surrounds
itself just then,
within a curve, a bend, an archway gleaming,
streaming back into itself again;
portrayed by darkness as unutterable
even as it travels through all dreams
in this prism of the future that has been
and ever seeks to be alive again.
Stars out-distance everything
we know -
oh, unending myriad of constellations,
gathering unto themselves alone,
pursuing just one steady course
for as long as darkness burns -
yet still, enflaming everything.
Within the soft of indigo
so gently into whispers of the wind,
showing us, in juxtapose,
how half the world we think we know
remains in realms of mystery,
awaiting that one moment it might be . . .
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .