The Dance
Dusk is put to bed
with raven's wings soaring above,
pulling night's curtain
toward the northern star.
My Victoria roses
no longer hold court,
no songbirds serenade,
but I hear quiet yelp of fox
playing beneath vineyard and vine,
flashes of red, moonlit.
It's a beauty that rivals
the sunflowers and blue iris
sprinkled within field midday
when my breath will catch,
but now I'm caught up
in the wildness,
heart fluttering, skipping,
wishing I could join the dance.
by Margaret Bednar, January 16, 2012
This is linked to "The Sunday Muse #90"
also linked with Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #13
My 12 year old son wrote to this image as well: HERE
also linked with Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry #13
My 12 year old son wrote to this image as well: HERE
