Umbriate Press Poetry

First there is a ghost of light, it filters into the eye announcing a dull hint of day as yet twisted around itself, bleary-eyed, searching for beginnings.

After, before it is felt, a creeping flame burns away the hours like ecstasy reveling in itself, engulfed in the wonder of how easily it hovers over movement and disappearance.

Slowly an old moon rises and with it drooping colors, fading memory and longing play at dreams of tomorrow.