MOONFLOWERS

 

Vines of the forest night

covered with white flowers

open to the moonlight as

her wafer of thinness fills

the clearing at the tree line.

 

Acolytes of a pale altar

wake up in service, hustle

to bind twill with landscape,

rustle leafy heart shapes

designed in fragrant light.

 

Do my stars, my love says,

blossoms lined overhead,

her true life perfume

overtaken by the ho-hum

tongues of moon therapy.

 

Search is more important

than climate, the mood,

the plans intent on sparks.

Dots pretend to be culled

like future embers of time.

 

Practice a dark chemistry

by a scant light and chart

wild findings of an astral

motion of spirits tittering

along vast realignments.

 

Vines of the night forest

produce white phantoms,

bloom in the moonlight 

while the planet of identity

clears away randomness.

 

Glories, passion trumpets,

cold white realities among

touch-sensitive musings,

make the countless ironies

of love making seem divine.

© Jimmy Warner, 2001