The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
Cherokee roses that bloom by day, now stand with folded petal
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply
What gift can I offer to the gods that dwell in castles high?
Sheaves of barley, a clutch of pearls, plates of golden metal?
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
You, my darling, have given all, you’ve nothing left to deny;
you’ve nothing to withhold. For this, you’ve braced your mettle.
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply
I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: he feeds among the rye.
I long for our bliss to bloom forth, roses amongst the nettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
Yet, what of this third blossom, at present, no more than a sigh
Are we to torture ourselves, think a twosome is less than--to settle?
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply
Our love withstands gale force winds, hands clasped, we say goodbye
Not wizard nor witch, with twisted hearts and a brewing kettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply
2 comments:
Nice. I like the form and rhyme scheme of this.
This is lovely Susan, a beautiful poem of true love, Elsie
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