This eve there is a pristine magic,
It floats softly on the still air of night,
A potion vapor by desire’s sorceress,
Reflected in the moon’s golden light.
Held not by man or woman or beast,
As dandelion seeds drift on parasols,
The whimsical spirit wavers to want,
Shunning all but love’s whispered calls.
There wanders it through heart and soul,
Caught in a dream catchers spider thread,
To flame the passion tangled there,
Of entwined bodies on a silken bed.
©2011, Donald Harbour
