A White Rose
The silver in the moon cast down through and unsuspecting atmosphere,
and onto my window sill.
Perched and fleeting in its simplicity.
The bows of the willow hang down into my subtle thoughts.
Carrying them down. prudent and wistful,
into the sweet wood
and the tangle of root hidden beneath appearance.
Down they flutter. Like a seed from a star.
Down into the earth.
The earth who has not yet seen the radiance amidst the moon.
Only the drooping fire in her own heart.
Only the raging warmth that burns with her melancholic breath.
Like a shadow whose sun is fading out of reach.
Or a rose with no love to be red with.