Naked flesh blossoms from a cover of moss 
in a garden night black with thistle and thorn. 
A tingle on the skin this autumn wind and a 
somber distraction from the eye of the moon. 
Hands on her lap like a pair of china cups, 
table and cloth, a silver tea set for two. 
None take seat save a troupe of fallen leaves as she 
stares from dark pools of the cold, bitter brew.

The clouds are as curtains blowing before 
the flirting light of the many candles that are stars. 
It is there in the room she sits in bloom an 
eloquence unheard and hidden in the dark. 
What hand warms her breast in a tender embrace 
as her eyes fill with ripples on a shallow pond, 
as she drifts over dreams like a petal on the water and 
shivers in time until the moon has gone?

What hand strokes away the tousled hair 
that twists like ivy across the mosaic of her face 
or strips these gnarled vines from the moist earth of her mind 
to plant whispers that will flower in their place? 
In a garden of the moon she waits in shadow, 
dreamt into existence by silence like a stone. 
A flower lovely and rare sprinkled in dew her hair but 
never seen in the day what the night has known.

Copyright © 1993-2001 Adrian Whitmore. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.