HARVEST MOON

The winnowing Wind pauses in mid-flow,

scattering her soliloquy

to waking stars, for the Oak would speak,

exhort his every root and branch

to minister to a gentler Light,

to the Harvest Moon that holds the Night.

I stumble into the now still scent

of wildflowers she bears through Seasons

that know no frontiers,

their fluid portraits born of Twilight's Eye,

dissolving each Dawn

into a Sky that wears wings.

Time returns a lost memory, a triton shell

that yielded the sound of its Sea to a Soul

that crept into its chosen crypt

under the lamp, for to preserve this treasure

of lives agone in deepest darkness.

She, the Artist in my dreams, wields a vision

I shall never possess.

Nay, her renderings must be and live

in a lapis mist as an airy gem, for my heart

waits by a ring of stone.

A falling leaf catches Autumn's first tune;

a golden harp string thrums

through the tremulous silver Dark,

abrim with voices I do not hear, yet know.

The Season grows,

moment by copper moment, into the ellipse

of my own Pearl Island of inspiration

in an ink-dark Eternity.

© 2016 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: THE HARVEST MOON

Source: commons.wikimedia.org

Artist: Samuel Palmer