Almost not enough light.
Cold, gloomy day,
woman with mother of pearl rain
on your face.
How spoiled I am by sun,
by warm radiance,
by people moving about,
and voices.
I stand beneath eaves.
I see the dancing glitter of water,
the harebells of silver drops
lining under branches.
Eyes seductive with sleep,
half opened lids of wonder,
the sensuous lingering
of a woman’s warmth.
The cold delight of air
brushing my face,
and the edge of my own star
touching space,
alive and well,
holding time in my hands.