My waking decline trembles
In the good hour
As it turns toward
The secret face of dream.
Your touch upon my shoulder
In the dark leaves
A handprint of clover
On the horizon
Of your parting.
My waking decline trembles
In the good hour
As it turns toward
The secret face of dream.
Your touch upon my shoulder
In the dark leaves
A handprint of clover
On the horizon
Of your parting.
Umbriate Press Poetry 