adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Pine Cones, a poem

Pine Cones

All night, I lobbed pine cones at the moon,
hoping to dislodge it from the sky.

You held a jar ready so you might carry it home,
place it by the bed to light our lovemaking.

We should have been there rather than staring upward
at the slow transit of the heavens.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

in a sorta sijo-like form

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