How I miss the dappled, sun-lengths,
and the purple, lapping dusk,
the fire flame of dying trees,
the yellow, green, and rust
of wooded carpets, nestled quiet,
beneath the silver dust.
The rising stars of darkling eves,
spinning soundless in the arc,
of night descending, violet air,
foundling in the dark
with quiet fingers pressed a mark,
upon my heavy heart.
© 1992
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