When Sorrow waltzed the midnight masquerade
I watched her glitter fiercely.
Could a star, no, a sun,
not pale compared to silver and saffron?
Stop my doubts and gird life
for courage–I request a dance.
“Death is next,” her card says.
He, in stately domino, bows and
kindly withdraws at her shy nod.
Stopped in time, circling triplet sway,
for a smile she rests in my arms–
me, a simple poet.
for RWP Day 12
where there was cotton
wind turbines grow in dust fields
past home dissolute
greyhound streets are pride barren
reality grieves memory
for Poetic Asides Day 12