SP Quill

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 crown
the halo of the ever-changing moon
that lights the line of lonely tanka verses
where sea can't reach the rumpled page of sand.
Beneath the tangled labyrinth of branches,
the path is writhing in the claws of roots
to home where the worn armchair is waiting
to rock the pain of someone lost all night.
.
all rights reserved © Natalia L. Rudychev

SP Quill, Fall 2006, Volume 12, 33.