Forward unto dawn, crisp dew drops glisten
upon her fingertips; delicate like a moth's.
As we dance through the shade of the great ceiling,
avoiding rays of sun wherever possible
The meadow encountered looked to be meant,
calling forth a deity of masked regret.
Behind us lay the village which has stood for years
and the wildfire of the forest on the crest just ahead.
Enclosed there is nothing else. Tighter. Breath, Heart, Thought
all play in symphony, an orchestra that bows at intermission
--
The streaks of orange paint the sky blue
and the soon to be wetness.
I turn my head to manage a glimpse
of the one I know will not be there.