A deep blue cowl folds across the westward horizon,

rests against earth, waits.

Cloaked shoulders, even darker, rise.

Soon, a gown jewels beneath, pierces through

the blackened weave of cowl and cloak.


Moments pass, the fabric unfurls.


More points glimmer, more than can be counted.

Wisps of white night-hair

fall haphazardly out, thread across

that great lonely pearl – clasp of night –

float amid the gather of silence.


Time bends with the motion.


No birds sing during this stretched hour.

Branches whisper only,

their shadows, fading, turn, bow, kneel

then stare up from earth, patient as Zen monks,

until cowl and cape finally fall across


and fade horizon’s spine.


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© Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich