The Writer's Club
THE TINY MOON
by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci
under a ganglia of burnt-umber branches
shadows grotesquely twist and hide themselves
on the grayery in evening gardens
but not for long. Already the sun ascends,
bursting at the pencil-lined horizon,
while morning clouds, feigning soft purity,
challenge the new sky, imperceptively
scumbling the rough edges of midnight blue.
the two of us, meanwhile, lie in bed:
you asleep, I free of dreams' entanglements.
on your wrist, glowing like a tiny indiglo moon,
time ticks the seconds slowly away.
on the pillow your face-- how peaceful!
on the pillow like strands of gold filigree
your hair.
Copyright © 1998 by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci
All rights Reserved
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