And in the after-fever, haunts and haunted linger–
but with a beat, the dream ends,
and above my bed, the moon still sings
of time and love, and endless things—
of winter aches and purple storms,
of thousands dead, and the forlorn
recalling spring, mourn the light–
today there will be no rose-pink dawn amidst the shadow-spray,
Yet cloud-fingers point, as if to say
behold the way the diamond-sparkle plays
on the ripples there–those other days.
Your heart cries why, your head knows when
the honeyed glow comes,
you’ll see the beauty once again.
My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. When I looked outside early this morning, I thought, there’s no rosy dawn today. It’s cold and windy, and the sky was full of dark clouds. The Oracle always knows.