With the Waning of the Moon
A poem
A poem
How chilling is the air
where frost and moonlight
weave a silver glaze
that glimmers brittle white.
Long shadows sketch silhouettes
with blackened inks,
as stars confetti an ebony night.
Though eyes perceive what the heart desires
there is but a frozen rose,
and love will not dim
nor will the wind sigh.
There is stillness in this chilly night,
as memories flitter
in the hallways of my mind.
Words are underpinned
by scents and gentle whispers
that rustle sullen leaves,
while I unpick the textures
of the memories they weave.
A fading rose endures
when all else fails.