Sprite

[anirbas]

I dance barefoot,
in the spirit,
under a sickle thin
platinum moon.
My arms raised happily,
to the starshot void,
passing me by above.
Most nights,
and days,
for that
matter,
I do this,
not naked,
but dressed
in black.
Either in mourning,
for the creative suicide,
I committed,
so long ago;
by laying away,
a God given gift,
I so loved;
or for the life,
I never had-
my life, unlived...
None the less,
here I am.
Dancing,
without a care,
in the loving
gaze of Luna.
Spiraling,
into the shadows
thrown by the loftily
spreading crown,
of a Catalpa.
It's jungle green leaves,
the size and shape,
of an elephant's
infant.
I twirl,
skipping and darting,
across my backgarden,
bathed in luscious
silvern beams.
Giggling to myself,
and at the antics,
of my pair of little dogs,
jestering and hamming it up,
beside me, for my undivided attention.
But, it is elsewhere.
Shooting about the universe,
at warpspeed. Here, there,
nowhere, and everywhere.
Circling visciously,
then, laconically.
My thoughts are seeking
the trail, that leads to a
landing, like a vulture,
sensing it's fresh roadkill,
on a starshot highway,
leading to nowhere
and everywhere.
Oh well, not in the mood,
to be philosophic,
I grin, at the transformation,
of my back garden,
in the becoming glow,
of the sickle thin moon,
and the starshot void.
Bathed in such an enchanted light,
it has become a fairyland,
and I a literal sprite.
As I jig, dance and skip,
my way to the backdoor.
Slip in, slide my feet on
the slick wood floor,
like the kid,
at heart,
I am.
Not a care
in the world.

7/2004

[anirbas]

In the creek,
where sometimes,
I go for nature walks.
Providing it is the right time,
of year of course,
no snakes about,
to stick out their snout,
and bite me!
You would never guess,
what I have seen,
slipping about my garden,
later than others might,
in the middle of the night.
Maybe that is why,
I was gifted with the chance,
to see her,
when the creek ran high,
and a bloatedly round moon,
rode the black sky,
no one else was up,
and she never suspected,
upon her ritual,
of rebirthed delight,
there was a spy.
I stood in the shadows,
beneathe the humongously
spread crown,
of a Catalpa tree,
inhaling the scent,
of blooming four o'clocks,
fanning out from it's huge trunk.
I doubt she saw me,
or I dare say,
I would not have seen her...
as she wriggled then rose,
from the mud created by the rain,
and the rising waters,
of the swollen creekbed.
There beneathe the weeping willow,
on the far side of the bank.
Her skin was olive,
her eyes glimmered jade,
in the shimmering silvern beams,
of the bright moonlight.
Her hair fell to her knees,
in a shade of vertigreen,
streaked with wide bands
of platinum.
Her calves and arms,
were covered in creekbed mud,
her tresses hid her other charms.
As she raised her hands,
to the sky,
as I had just been doing myself,
before her, I did spy,
moving, from the corner,
of my disbelieving eye-
I noticed, she was webfingered,
and silver nailed.
I guess the better to swim with,
as were her feet,
as webbed as her hands,
which I saw,
as she dove into
foaming dark water,
and disappeared,
from my wondering sight.
Just a creek sprite,
I had born witness,
to the birth of,
in the middle
of the star shot night.

7/2004