...by Paula Roberts (2000)
Liquid moonlight pourring a silver path,
lining the foliage with shimmering lace.
A fragrant bath,
concocted of dewdrops.
Webs teasing the bridal feast,
guarded by a weaver of certain doom.
A crafty beast,
skill perfected through ages.
Sounds emoting primal fear,
assessed and stored for a need yet defined.
A salty tear,
shed for incredible beauty.
Moments passing, sublime and objective,
blessed in existence and death.
Balanced perspective,
born of surviving the night.
Daylight breaking, veiling the magic,
steeped in concrete realities.
Sadly tragic
and filled with want for moonlight.
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