bloody and scathed,
yet still intimate with a surreptitious fog,
crawls under the roots of November oaks.
aspirations tuned to the leaves,
plot their conquest of riches untold.
I lean against an old light post:
Its tenuous figure leads my gaze toward a languid archway.
Dim shadows can’t stop whispering
as they congregate among misplaced bricks.
I want to talk to them,
but they scuttle away (in fear?),
spreading their wings atop higher estates.
As the streets, so tranquil, succumb to the fog,
the crows burst into chatter,
the oaks slip into laughter,
and the shadows, now mute, carry themselves into flight.
Anger pierces through the thick, grey and encroaching,
dragging along what mooning remains.
The archway awakens with unease.
My footings lost, I fall through its twilit bosom,
only to find you, my love,
at sea in a serene slumber.
That which haunts us shall set aside a bearing
of touch (to awaken),
so gentle of knowing,
that it may resound
in a moon
Note: There are a couple of versions of this poem. This version was on our home laptop. It is shorter than the other versions, and I like it the best. I believe Kevin put it on the laptop during one of his visits to New Mexico since I do not remember doing so.