Pale like the moon, your forehead
marked by a sliver of dirt—
How much time do we have, led in
and out of the maze-like woods?
The river quarrels noisily with the rain—
always, it tries to be more than it is.
[LAG-signature date=”02 13 2013″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2013/02/159123139/”]