I flitter
In a droplet of moonlight.
Am I a leaf,
Or are these wings?
Will you be eaten by an owl?
Or do the shadows appear as substance,
More alive than the caster?
How can I protest,
With the glorious incandescence,
Of the stars?
It is, perhaps, the brush of death,
That caresses your cheek,
So gently.
And if I decide to rest myself a moment,
Will you have the virility,
To let me sit?
Allow me to shake,
The very cords of your soul,
Before I flutter away.