Evensong
       

The little brown bat at the forest's edge
hangs on the wing of evening.
Trees swell with their stories.
The moment of the trail opens,
and we pass through easily,
whispering leaf, needle, sap.
As the heron flies to its nest,
we grow tall and slow
with the voices of moss.
Good night is all we can recall.
Goodnight.    Goodnight.    Goodnight.

Tweet

Copyright © 2017 Sheila Nickerson All rights reserved
from Hitchhiking the Highway of Tears
MoonPath Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission