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.