There is an agony of nature, a
recovery to the bone of remiss

like recalling a dream
long after its impression

the light sews its legacy impounding
the moon in timber grays, coming to me

untold, unfolding the twilight of
recollection, then in the

remembrance of that moment,
befalling redolent in the gold

sinecure of arbitration,
vacuous as assassins in the

evening of love’s equanimity,
its splendor just beyond

recognition, forms a lost tableau
of silence like a yellow lotus
in the gilded light of memory

© K. James Ribble