artwork by Janet K. Brennan
Nights seem clean on her mountain
Of gray owls and old poorwills
She washes in the river
And gathers through the hills.
Stained by yesterday’s fall,
A cloak of linen and lace
When arrows dipped in fire
an imminent fall from grace.
He came with smiling eyes
Tripping on her gown
A garment spun by spiders
The razzle-dazzle-round.
Through a metaphoric rhyme
His heart was set to tune
Bouquets he’ll never gather
‘Tho they danced ‘neath the desert moon.
For the thorn amongst the flower
Tears the briar to wood
And burns to ashen tomorrows
The lovers and the fool.
Oh Sayatasha'
Hide beneath your steel
So swift the kill and gone
The battle of the will.
For another waits to dance
Upon your grave of moss
Nights seem clean on her mountain
Yet she cries for her loss.
For he came with smiling eyes
Tripping on her gown
A garment spun by spiders
A razzle-dazzle-round.
Through a metaphoric rhyme
His heart was set to tune
Bouquets he’ll never gather
While they danced ‘neath the desert moon.
Janet K. Brennan