Of Morning, Distant

To be this night,
dark garden of the trees
and stars, this sadness webbed,
a fragile gauze shrinking

in the dying shadows.

Of morning, distant
arc of blue and gold
turns wildly silver-white
as hair, as ice, as wings.

With longing, ripe
and amber as the moon-
to live, shattered as a ray
of light- to die filled

with fire, tears and blood.

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