The Alps At Night Poem by Leslie Philibert

The ribs of falling night
Cold flints of Autumn, a dark curtain
Creating two rooms

Nameless stumps of broken teeth
Melted to the white rock jaw,
Heavy as the light is bad,

The path a black swan`s neck
Tubular and serrated,
A tunnel of guarding pines,

And the trees that grab the swallowed sun,
A tense spring under the forest floor
Pushing me along;

The air quiet as a stone`s face,
The half silence of a broken bell,
Leaves moving with small life

So all light has fled into the sky!
Just the small spots of dropped stars;
A road down a distant valley.