fall from cool heights,
filter through trees’
leaves and branches,
waft through window,
cloak the table
where the watcher,
silent, waits.
Moonlight poet,
bathed in quiet,
waits for phrases
dancing slowly.
Tales of life and
songs of loving
flowing lithely,
pen to pad.
Softly glowing
words of knowing
etch themselves
upon the page.
Cobalt blue curves
‘tween the grey lines
speak of night hues
laid upon day’s
brash designs.
Marry night’s dreams
with the day’s schemes
weave the mind and
soul together.
Integrate the
poet’s vision
with the will that
gives it life.
Are the words and
will his, solely?
Are they old fruit
now come ripe,
planted by some
other poet
writing somewhere
on his heart?
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