Image Credit: Marcus Lovfenberg
Pressed above the easy cloud
Of cicada song
And warm scent
Of some siren flower
Whose name perhaps you think your Lela knew
In some other time:
La luna blanca.
There, breathing gentle blues
Out, and out
Tuning the thrum of fizzling lights
Down by the waterfront
To an even key.
Steady and still enough
To waver in the palms
Of children drawn to windows
Like mayflies to mirror pools
By a gazing beacon
Which sees them now,
And perhaps again
In some other time.
And across that stretch of tapering light
Another land is seen the same
Under the soft and patient stare
Dying stars break their falls as snow.
