someone lost.Dry twigs of placid days are feeding fire,illuminating stretch of long-deserted shore,as leaves are dancing night away with shadows,paced by the tunes of high and low tide.The wreath of nameless herbs is twined to crownthe halo of the ever-changing moonthat lights the line of lonely tanka verseswhere sea can't reach the rumpled page of sand.Beneath the tangled labyrinth of branches,the path is writhing in the claws of rootsto home where the worn armchair is waitingto rock the pain of someone lost all night..all rights reserved © Natalia L. Rudychev
SP Quill, Fall 2006, Volume 12, 33.