In the Chapel of Night

Darkness opens, spills
tiny possums, crooning owls,
a raucous chorus of tree frogs.

Shore fog twists and disappears
like invisible smoke ink
through ragged fingers of cypress.

I spin my glass of cold wine,
savor a chill which bites to the bone,
watch the crystal stars whirl.

Empty as never before,
I breathe pale honeysuckle, place my hands
upon earth, push the night back.
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Last Update: 04/17/97
Web Author: Jennifer Lagier