Through the moonlit orchard, ghostly, passed a cohort quiet mostly, but for bridled horses snorting and a phaeton's lines, unspoken. In the loaming, apples, gallowed, tarnished silver, in the branches, shivered in that haunted gloam; the ungathered pome. * Shadows rushed the walls and ceiling of my chamber, causing flame and … Continue reading The Ungathered Pome.
Unopened, dun letters envelop the floor. Sheaf leaflets, none read; too many to mention... But her hand, delivered today to my door - penned, posted, scented - receives full attention. Her lines bring pleasure to me, and I glean nuance from her Wish You Were Here missives. News from her mill and river, hills of … Continue reading This Song of Sparrows.
I once found a fluted glass at the foot of a door in a beautiful city where morning sunlight spilled through the Lindens like ghosts lining the streets and I whispered a name that was still unknown to me then but one day poured from your lips to my ears turned in slow motion a … Continue reading I Whispered.
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