…this remembered kiss. The lost comfort
of flowers which rise
within the glades, the light
bent by branches, the hum of bees and sap.
The touch of, the kiss of,
memories of the sun upon forest floor.
The slow arching neck, the face turned to shadow,
ancient heron, aloof in shaded stream.
The beating wings, no Leda here,
no surrender nor raising lips
to be caressed with tender presses,
the cold light which guides.
The moment of loss, and beginning.
Writer Moe 