Where They,

and the whippoorwill,

do warble up above

neath waning, turpentine moonshine

those evensongs

I long to be a part thereof

—to ever trill their twilit shrills

of naught but love.

Nighttime madrigals I scrawl,

imbibed on mulled wine

—honeyed, and berried,

my varied arbor drought.

My dripping ink intones

hollowed hymns

—pantomime.

Far from-like the star-bright psalms

the storied Songbirds wrought.

Much and more,

Their call is all I've sought

—berceuses crooned to lull the hart

and to Their Will my heart align.

My mind does dance

mine eyes do tire

yet my limbs heed the chants

to be amongst that moonlit Choir

neath waxing, turpentine, moonshine.