The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Now while stars are falling…

Now while stars are falling like firelit dewdrops
and the ring of mist like some belted milky way
casts shadows of a mauve too purple
to lightly pass,
I forget which sun’s too animate rays
have exploded pollen’s fragrant grasp,
but I, who wear no clothes but the ones I have on,
who sing no other songs but my own,
though magic is for fainter hearts
and echoes are my recompense,
like some noisy songbird sing singly
just before the breaking wave of dawn strikes
the already bruised heel of night.