RIC S. BASTASA
She was very strange, and beautiful,
as the violet mist upon the hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.
She was very strange, in a pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still...
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.
She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave me all,
I had nothing left.
Long I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.
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