as passion
confessed
by luna to flame
a faithful old owl
to the moon
where crickets are crowded –
as branches to breeze
remembered
as snowflakes
in June

there’s a spot
at the softest curve of the night
the color of eyes
as depths to the sea
a place in the meadow
where secrets
are kept –
where stars make love
to the trees

there’s a swelling
decided
by all I hold dear
– breath holding softly
my own
a place in the universe
as music unheard
by words not yet spoken
I’m known

. . .