We are witnesses in the courtyard,

when the sky loosens with thunder.

We climb the cloistered steps;

wind whistles around our clothes.

My sheepskin bulges with red wine;

it pours like blood in the candlelight.

You hand me the green apple;

I hand you the soft white bread.

The night bobs, a cork in the storm;

we stay entwined until the lightening.

04/13/2003

Posted on 04/13/2003
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt