Poetry

Tell me. Tonight, 
when your mind goes blank, 
where the smoldering words 
will go? 
 
Half-submerged is the harvest 
moon. There are splotches 
of clouds, but no 
clear invite. 
 
Aerial moonlight. 
tells the age of tallest pine. 
I will not climb the 
Everest anymore. 
 
Sky now plunges deep in 
an abyss. I will embrace 
the upturned terra ferma 
and write a new poem.