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Wineglass
by David C. Kopaska-Merkel
Luna falls on her lover by the sea,
In the hills where the trees fail,
At the crossroads open to the sky.
Down she leans to brush his lips with hers,
To lave his limbs, anoint her cheeks
With his essence.His arms raised up are shining,
He shatters and reforms
In her argent seaborne path, in
Pools of mercury after rain; the eyes of does,
Reflect him up to her and back.She breathes him in,
An ardent vapor, a promise in the dusk,
He's whirling, flying, attenuated and exalted,
Heedless, she gathers him to the sky.
© Kopaska-Merkel, 2007
David Kopaska-Merkel lives in what was almost a rainforest and may soon be a desert. People have to stay away from sticky foods there, but otherwise, Tuscaloosa, is a very pleasant town. Writing genre by night and geology by day, dodging artists and small mammals, he manages to keep turning them out.