The Fifth Season - Poem by Leslie Philibert
not Spring. Not late but dark.
The hunter`s moon dissolves
as moths take to the woods, as sparks.
As if I could form the night like clay
and wonder at the polar stars in my palm.
The turning wind has failed to stay.
Tress and late snow unblessed with the kiss
of early warmth. Trapped in half light, in
the moor of sacred lands. It is
Comments about The Fifth Season by Leslie Philibert
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You