Tuesday, May 25, 2004


Why do you fascinate me so,
against your field of pink?
(I think its pink, all soft and deep and feminine)
I follow you for miles until your field turns black
and you shine brighter blue.

Who hung you there,
draped on lunar shoulders
to steal the glances from the evening gown?
Would you tell the truth and
give the credit to the jeweler?

I cannot look away for fear that you will soon be gone.
It's the end of the day, you know.
Already your shine has dimmed and you will soon be whole.
It's the end of a season, you know.

Divine irony that as you grow more complete,
you seem to us to fade.
That as you're moving closer,
to us you're far away.

The mysteries of the changing seasons.