The fading light of evening
Casts a pall upon the floor,
Doorway to the passing of day.
The sounds of night creep into
The stew of left over hours,
Gravy for the bits of obligation.
There is movement in the moment,
Rustling of your skirt, your hair,
Fragrance of your womanhood assailing,
A captive thread binds me to you,
But, I only see your shadow,
And I wonder, “where are you?”
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour