I taste the wind upon my tongue;
my mouth agape, I am yet amazed,
that I should witness vast parade,
a play of stars, now drawn in woe.
“It is cry,” sings wind to my ear;
how long these tears have stained,
that the sky has breath, this wind,
yet her eyes weep, weathered tho’.
“Speak to me tales of sweet rain,”
I spoke to sky, as if she heard;
how long her eyes held their gaze,
did I but tremble with her plea.
Night falls soft. Her eyes, weary;
“Sleep, dear sky, none with tears,”
my voice splayed in worded caress,
“wrap me in night, sleep is free.”
I see not stars, but starless gaze;
she has braved herself to my needs,
like a serenade of light and dark,
she sings with wind, now in voice.
I could’ve slept long, save light;
she has journeys I’ve yet to take,
my Mistress sky of winsome curves,
she awaits, wanton, by her choice.