The windows sweat

The dwelling twists

As if hurt by a hunter’s

Straying bullet

Sleep does not come easy

The full moon has turned on

Its aureole radiance.

 

The poet saves his books

From nature’s white bleed

Dissolving from its icy brush

That leaves a wetland’s

Serrated image

Cool Jazz in the artist’s

Slow-beating heart.

 

But all this isn’t important

As love that had been present

For decades

Left suddenly like a migrating

Bird.

 

The body freezes inside

The woolen covers and

Argues with one’s heart

The brain on sudden alert

There’s no time to be lost

The mind commands

You have to hold on to

Every spark of hope and

Finger touches of love.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.