The Bud

The Bud There was a night that burned time to cool ash, and upon its fragrance rose a deep morn'; to be bereft of such chance in cold time down the old clay plains as a sober dream would dare tell is to burn with hard dry wood. I set light to my dreams in eve's cold quake of thought, as quiver here and moment now I find myself on the bed, wooing my thoughts as a girl woos her mother and as a moon once stole the girl to sleep in the arms of passion-deep thought, like a bud to open up. Oh, what pink bud do I see b'fore my eyes? What earth once gave to me I bestow to my hooded bud, as a pale bird might doom its fleeting reflex for the arms of caress. Do I know what I ask this night? Forward into the jaw of the plain where none dare step on the old clay, where foot and hand are entities of their own - the long night slides and burns time to cool ash, even in deep morn' where I follow her with jade eyes, to slip back into shadow, while heart pounds abreast.