A moonbeam nestled in the elbow of a twig. It was Aphrodite’s
and it had a story to tell, but the night wouldn’t let it.
Owls’ eyes glowed in the foundry, and the carpet of silver rolled.
There were fairies lost in the maze of the branches.
Winter came in charmed, naked, idling like a young girl twirling a daisy.
She was an impostor tonight, relishing her disguise, as light-hearted
as her sister, Spring.
While I, alike ready for play and afraid to unleash my own character,
put on an aging Propero beneath the stars and their flashing faces,
and tried again to capture what Lady Winter tossed away like a wrapper,
the magic of living without the burden of thought.