Three Poems in the Dark
The end of twilight falls. The sky
Is gray. Across the west there lie
The silent clouds where the late day
An hour ago spent its last ray.
And now upon the western rim
The sky and clouds have grown as dim
As tarnished silver. One lone pine
Stands darker still, its stalwart line
There guards the gate; its needles spread
Into a resined shadow, shred
Against the gray. And as time waits
Between the sky, the pine, the gate,
Their plenitude is filled by one
Lone shadow made without the sun,
Whirled through as though a leaf of fall
Were flitting on the wind, but all
Is still and all is quiet; that,
The furtive flight of one small bat.
The night is rowdy.
The mesquite leaves make a screen
to shield a shy star.
Of the Moon and Time
The sky is pewter gray. The moon is large
And brilliant. Just one edge is missed
Out of the round to meld its shadowed marge
Into the gray where both or none exist,
For in the blaze of light it seems as though
All else is absent, neither stars nor cloud
Within the boundary of that great glow,
And time itself seems lost within her shroud.
I see the neck and wings of the great swan
Shoot outward from the covert of her light,
While far away the huntsman looks upon
The moon as well, nor lets his spear take flight.
For all is paused, and though her brilliant climb
May mark the hours, she smiles at passing time.
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