Then, a woman from the wilderness
meanders over curiously
to haunt me with deceptive glares cascading
over the living embers between us.
Shift, the moon casts momentum on the shadows.
Soon she will begin the rite of spring
interpreted as a steady matador with a troubadour
composing a violent dance past finesse.
Onward, firefly dances amidst smoking pines.
There she weaves a path of ash
during the flotsam landing on magpies
who sit on nearby branches, silent voyeurs.
Twilight, the grey morning bruised dull
from the soft cracking coals that smell of sulfur.
Give me one more tomorrow night, feral gypsy.
One more lush breeze to breathe me a trance
A chance to vanish into the nirvana of satisfaction.
NOTES: Edited version of previous "Rite of Spring" poem. Didn't like title. Didn't like epigram. Changed end stanza and wording throughout poem. Title Changed.
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