A tender wind spins through the trees,
upsetting the branches’ slumber.
This means Springtime in the East.
Tonight, we feast on beastly striving.
When the burning hour comes,
we’ll drink in its fire,
our perspiring recollection
reflected in the glow.
There’ll be rain but no drear tonight,
I’ve declared it so. Here, the moon
is swooning in a tarry cloister,
moisture of an overflowing love
shoving shadows off the grid.
And there’s dancing, much dancing,
a muddled magic wafting,
and rhythm daring.
Staring through a window,
mouthing along to the words
of a Mountain Goats song
is a most appropriate thing to do.
So is smoking candle wax,
and so is being close to you.

-r. miller

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