Low hanging wisps on a velvet fabric sky
falling into the ubiquitous wet,
illuminated by poppy flowers
with enough light to prevent the dew to set.
Sweet cinnamon moon brings the rain to rest
and the clouds all part to his potent glow,
dreams dancing sideways back into the day
float into the fire to feel afflictions slow.
She will bring song when such dreaming is done
her fingertips glancing my curtains ajar,
and rays will lead me to her glowing embrace
that which I have often admired from afar.
Sure, the skies shift with stuttered intensity
but I willfully trace her propensity.