Transition

The eventide is familiar, warm, alight
like Morgana, in waiting, not quite
a lady.

Shade descending, night creeps
in upon the rain-mugged stone.
Audible waves of gold rush past
and vanish, leaving an itenerant
along forgotten shores of the Mystic.

Something as delicate as lace
carries a deadly bite; vaguely fragrant
fruit sends maybe’d invitation
across wonders of illusion.
The words beg more, elucidation.

Germs and warfare keep us distant.
The holy of holies upon us casts
a toxic glow, lost forbidden zenith.
Transition has its prime and grace.

~AnnRCantu
October ‘09