Silent Meeting

The face in the mist,

percolated by the breeze,

reformed incessantly.

Pointedly it regarded me,

and I wondered at

its composition,

a face or fine water

polished in the moonlight

by the sordid sounds

of unchaste crickets.

We stood in silence,

neither risking speaking first.

Slowly I stepped backward

and the face followed

as if tethered to me

like a small boat,

bobbing at me as I


The face’s kin had

veiled the moon

in a fine halo

of deep maroon and

midnight blue.

He smiled at me,

and as my lips parted

to speak,

he slipped between the

pine boughs in a

sweet, supple sigh

and the crickets stopped,

as if to mourn his passing.


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