Sky of November

The first chill sways in me

My heavy, suspended sunset,

A canvas well marked, yet

More transparent than the wind.

I let them go together-

My last light, and the wind,

For they each live to string

The other’s hollow songs.

Like beads on thread, they live

On the round, cascading necklaces,

A bright, frigid web casting endlessly

At the stars of the light-rent sky.

They hold me, thank me

Before blowing through meager breasts

In hopes of mine- the lost souls

Of theirs and the dying noon.

I am left, pale, truly last in line,

Enshrouded in the wind that stays,

In the last, who bestowed on me

His memories of day.

Those that have me, the hollow hearts

Where my wind and my light

Struggle to thread-

They are more alone than I.

They have not even my sunset,

Only the wind, my wind,

Infused with stolen roses

Which make plain dreams wild.

Mist

Lady, with the lace,
Lady, with the shroud,
This Lady, who spun
And knit the cloud,

It was a lazy, unkempt morn,
And early as could be,
Upon five days of endless rain
She dried upon the sea.

Her days and days without the dawn
Were days without a sky,
All of this had gone for wash
And came back barely dry.

She'd watch the sunset,
Her sister vain
Gather all her trains,
Washed so clean of all the dye,
Naught but gray remains.

That pleased her, Lady,
That pleased her fine.
"For once!", she thought,
"Gowns plain like mine."

The Long Season

Unblemished night,
the sweet sleeper
Waltzes with the storm,
Blind muse, blind fury blitz
Chased by the morn.

The thunder calls his mistress
Who runs around and around,
A twisting smile still there
As the sky turns in revelry.

She's dizzy, dear, endless silks tear,
Beads shrieking, snapping,
Snaring, scraping glass
Upon the roof, ice threads
With phantom spiders and all.

The maid will come,
The moon, but in a trice
To find herself knee deep,
Ankles wet, gown stained
In all excess to bask.

All this, all this
For the keeper of night,
When sleepers sleep again.