here, amidst the cattails,
I am so enormously small
that my shadow has lost it's darkness;
that my soul has lost it's thinness.
A hundred days
is a rush of nothing,
that courses over the heavy rocks.
Webs glistening in fine silver chains,
adorned by tiny violets
that open for night,
and night alone.
your voice is but an echo,
that fades in the pine branches,
caught in the throats of nightingales
who sing it into something new and bright,
a prayer for the phosphorescent fireflies
that dance in whispered dawn.
searching the crystalline surface
I find wearied constellations,
that dissipate in nearing twilight
and leave my reflection and I
hidden between the stars and sky.