Dark Ringlets (Poetry)

The night left poems in her hair
words breathed by the pensive breeze
abandoned there
woven — a soft nest of fragrances
and old songs half-remembered
threaded through
dark ringlets pinned with silver where
moon flowers grew.

Wishes floated in a warm black cloud
the smallest clung
a dream of feathers — petals — tunes
written — conjured — spun
in rhythms sobbing — sighing deep
as passing sonnets glowed
like comets streaking — growing pale
cold comfort in her sleep.

The dawn — too early — found her face
discovered echoes on her pillow
and erased them
her mind clear as the sky’s
blank page
she rose — opened wide the window
of her bedroom’s chill blue cage
and combed out the tangled verses — set them free.