And Still

poem

poem

Photo by Annette Sousa on Unsplash

The caress of the wind, as it tickles the leaves,
lingers across the coldness of her face,
while I can taste the salt upon the keen air,
and still black shadows curve and blend.

White gems are faded against the deepest mantle,
like yesterdays, but yesterday is dead.
So, we drain the glass and put the stars to bed,
and still the rain descends at hurried pace.