Awakening bristle through
These trees, soft wind
And cool; whose shallow voices
Rise and fall, like feathers
Lilting, drifting, floating
To our musty forest floor.
Heart cleaves to phantom,
And head to vapor constructs;
Willing what will not
Be reconciled to nature’s
– And to God’s – design.
But these whispers carry
In them frail notes
Of swelling dissonance,
Whose moans tincture harmony
With sweet contradictions,
Beloved forms, and conjured dreams.
What glint of that faint orb
Of night touches two or three
Fronds in quiet ballet
Will shadowy crawl away;
But we will stay
And love remain unspoken.


About A. S. Ellis

I am always learning. Always. And that is as it should be.
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