Blackest Mood

Indicted, 

the firm grass― 

will start a fire. I was trying 

to find my path in smoke. 

On fingertips, was at stake, 

the creek's departure. 

I would wear a mask 

hiding my emotions. 

We will wait for the spring. 

There was still a mound of snow 

at the door. 

The rape of the moon 

was not in cards. We were ready 

to sit in moonlight, reading 

our hands. 

Philosophy of death 

has many questions. Religion 

of birth has many answers.