by Cam M. Roberts
The Fog is absconded in carriages of bluster
where the wind wills her far away and fading –
Amid some semblance of swoon
live those downcast eyes of hazel.
Withheld adornments: Her lashes
like plumage are such marvels
heralded by pastel hues, all this
recurs within a withering mist.
She blushes, nonetheless,
and so much the better for it.
Gone, thereafter, in her dreams
to a soon and secret lover.
Upon awakening at the dew point
of the sunken evening, she is crowned
by the crescent moon – Then under
the veil of night she goes, eloping
with her ghostly lover. In pursuit of
scenes where swan and loon are in salon.
They both hasten, swift as stars,
hand-in-hand until they land
out there about the moonlit lake.
In the silence, the bow and curtsy,
anon to a song they forever dance.
In the waltz, regalia apropos is donned,
a coronet of her heart’s countenance,
almost as wings, quantum spirits flown:
She smiles in bloom as all is lifting in the urge.