Waiting

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Crisp, clear, cool.

As if one’s breathe were their first.

Floating crystals of morning frost, burning bright in sun lit skies.

Raw, edged, a blade in the darkness of a shadow.  I am shaded by a thought.

How fluorescent is the dawn?

In a dream my eyes awoke, starved for sensation,

pupils dilated, take in, drink in.

Oh this fall morning, for I am mourning.

Lost again is the Autumn, flora struck by Ra’s flame,

But now as a knife in the dark, winter plants its poison.

Lost, is the Autumn, again I wait for spring.

-M.E. Inkowl

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