drifts of white
lace the windows --
pearled edge of lunacy

tapping the old wood of desire --
under darkness river folds to ice

setting sun melts
into woodsmoke --
regrets rising with the moon

I call for you --
the return of echoes

silver light --

the gentleness of November

a lumbering sweep of wing
heron rises --
I turn one more page before sleep

slightly frayed
silken petals
at the point of stillness . . .