​On a blanket of bluegrass
watching weeping willows cry,
their tears fell down to cover me
as charcoal clouds floated by.
I tried to see the silver linings,
through streaks of lightning,
in a lavender sky.
On a mirrored pond, mimosa blossoms
decorated the image,
reflection of the gibbous moon,
rippling gently on the evening breeze,
ethereal in its visage.
It felt as if the universe was
breathing me in,
breathing me out,
sustaining me by and by.
In the air I heard
Brahms’ lullaby,
music playing sweetly,
softly as a sigh.
No more than a whisper,
it made me ache with want.
But my need was too intense
for it,
the wind too fickle
and nonchalant.

M. Zane McClellan

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