intriguing now
the bondage
of moors against the pins
a tapestry of features
silver spade

haunted by the wrong perfume
nested o’er our heads
awaiting time –
as winter winds to pry

the sleepless
from their slumber
the pigeon from her mate
ne’er thought to far
the object of her pine

fear conveyed in shifting
gathered grace
in letting go –
wings no longer touch
above the storm

. . .