The cold winds of evening gradually fell asleep In the bowers of the whispering woodland, Even the stream’s meandering grew vague Like a child who had lost the way home again, Or a scholar trying to decipher The shaded pages of a sheltered sky Before the manuscripted hyroglyphics were wiped dry By the grey laden clouds of the secret night. Voices of the day still dallied in somnambulistic echoes Like memories remembering that you remembered them, Those picturesque daydreams that once held your hand As you wandered peacefully through your chaptered hours Page by page, in charismatic choral interpretations of peace, So very many bookmarks, so many pages turned over at their corners Forgotten yet not forgotten, misted crazy paved places you once Stopped at, mystified by the many separate forks in their roads. An old wooden casket, open on the fireside table, inside it Shone glimmering stars of every wish you had ever made, And every sliver of moonlight you had ever gathered on the bridge Of moss clad stone, as you dozed in the musical terpsichorean smile of the river, before wandering away home, wrapped in the images Of everyday, rainbows, sunrises, sunsets, and nightingales Singing over the evening’s lace patterned river, Moon gold mesmerizing moments of fragrant forever…