When The Wind Moans Moon Poem by James McLain

Running with breath through the moss
I come up along the window of your sight.
You stand there still taught and tight two tips
pressed against my eyes as your Payne.
Still your attitude is not as the wind ever
shifting me around
without sound as you listen ever brighter never
burning out. You hear the moan you see the owl
settle down in featherless sound at your feet.
The dance of the oak this night as leaves feel
braces sigh while limbs bow down exposing
the home of the owl narrow across but deep inside
in song with the heart.
You list to the right and its left moving as if in sleep
so deep you miss the touch inside the moss as it
swims the air you breath.
Back on your side the moon out side reflects off you
even brighter as you roll over again now sure.