We are so bereft of time
lost among the stars, each his
own, in manifest | buoyancy as
light balanced in the night’s last
dance of luminescence, a wit to
curation of constriction, yet
our camp, dark with the
shadow of night, is a fleeting
Image of time standing still,
as you come to me now,
release me into the vapor
of Time set to the blue
scale of winter, eager for
the longing we’ve known all
along; your whispers, like the
mountain aspens, sing to me
as a voice shuddered in truths,
in sweet aging of desert sage,
brisk as the bright I see
reflected in your southern eyes.
 
 
 
© K. James Ribble