She could come in the form of a distant moon,
Or a faraway star--—
I suppose she'd be more comfortable that way,
Alone with the night and her gathering of words,
The intricate trailing of thought and verse
That will paint her sky of tomorrow--—
It's all about color, you know.

If she falls down I'll hear it in her tone,
In the loss of line and rhythm
Stretched wider than arm's length,
And only then I'll put my ear to the ground,
Wait for the low roar and lie quiet as it passes--—
It becomes beautiful when falling from sight.

She is not a mystery,
And when her feet touch the water there will be a ripple--—
It's the structure, you see, that holds my attention,
The creation of voice that leaves me thirsty,
But then I should have known,
She's not an easy woman.

12/26/2007

Posted on 12/26/2007
Copyright © 2025 Jim Moore