My Bed Waits, Though

Night came, first on violet feet.
No clothes, but skin, bone-white,
then blue and green. Watch the mountains
slowly curl for sleep like boats rolling
with the respirations of the sea.
Now moths, small heads grinding
at the screens, their split-wings
frenzied, addicted to the artificial light.
At last, the moon late to keep her post,
a silver halo twined into her graying hair
throws supernatural shine on dormant fields,
knits crystal blankets for the hills.
My bed waits though, I am reluctant to leave
the night will burn its way to morning
and I might miss the splendor of its passing.