the sickle moon hangs in the sky
peach silk clouds
wood smoke drifts across
an ending and a beginning
a convolution of gaseous ash
a shroud to hide with
but
the moon is the same
still
humming
mirrored in the glow of the white blossom chalices
constant in the moment of change
my mind tries to hold the humming
'Stay! ', it says....
it runs through my fingers like spring water
wood smoke on the evening air...
Anthony Dalby
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sickle-moon/
