Monday, February 12, 2007

Imagined Midnights

Who told the moon to come out?

Was it the hands of the fountain,
So outstretched they couldn’t be anything but lonely?

Was it the sigh of the owl,
Rounding the treetops in vagabond sadness?

It was the high, cold pines, who,
Uninterested, made the whole sky jealous.

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