It is not quite night, but the songbirds have
Not stopped their songs. The long trailing
Leaves have stopped their growth.
The gigolo has stopped his need
For bookings and the maidens their
Need for privacy.
There is dancing and merry-making
There is the miracle
Of water into wine.
Not yet fully formed, it tastes just a
Little fermented, like growing grapes.
Is there a kind of gladness
In saying there is a songbird tonight?
A Kind of a happiness becoming
a waterfall? Is it the smell of the dying
daylight that sings songs to the small
boathouse by the lake?
In the dark, the hidden reminds us
Of who we are. The dark mountains
Remind us of who we are. Cave
Drawings, fire-leaving beings. The
Women dress up for the fancy ball as
If they were dying to look beautiful.
Which some of them were. If only I
Could be made beautiful in their eyes.
Then I would be seen as a
- Hanging out on Instagram