pitched sleep tents with deepest pegs clasped hands could drive
into shifting sand dunes where the bravest trade caravans ride
friend laid beside foe nightly in that much travelled band
whose tent did we share last time when we slept on dune sands?
on morning's moonset we fetched down all the sleep tents
at dawn packed up camels not knowing from where we went
we rendezvous'd nightly, travelled footsteps untraced
reading map legends sketched lightly on the fading nightscape
morning moon trimmed down the lamps that burned off the dark so brightly
we nibble gazed crescent to a sliver as it waned each dawn so slightly
then into a shadow shard it broke sharp hard over hour changing dunes
same and never same, everlasting flame, leading all into their bloom
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1 comment:
My take on this is dicey at best.
;-)
When we as foes, not lovers, sleep on shifting sands, we wake not knowing where we came from or where we are going. We repeat nightly, each tracing a solitary path, following shallow habits that are without meaning.
The moon waxes and wanes through the nights, changing and ending our ways with each other. Whether it's a shadow breaking us in our sand castles or a flame burning brightly elsewhere, the moon is always there to guide night dreamers seeking sweetness, seeking beauty.
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