Somewhere in the half-light
hangs my moon,
a silver veil, beams of change
transforming shadows, dusty corners.
The night breeze has a chill edge
and I am bound, too much on my mind to sleep.
Light closes and it’s not the darkness that troubles
but the violence in the cold, clear day.
Beginnings turn to endings,
disappointments, the same circles formed.
A woman at the window
is watchful as the storm rages through.
Copyright 2013 Louise Hastings