by David Sermersheim

wind sings
through the strings
of an open window

so still a rock
tumbles silently
down hill

night feels like blue silk
running through
open fingers

we are alone
silhouetted against
the circle of the moon

drawn into the
arc of silvery

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.