A shadow blends then softly sways,
It hangs and bends, mirrors and plays.
A thread unwinds then turns anew,
Back to dark where few pursue —
A whispered breath, a quiet sigh,
The night folds open toward the sky.
A wave pulls back then moves again,
A whirling dance of loss and then —
The edges blur, the lines combine,
Between the dark and fading shine
A searching hand, a sudden sight,
The endless curve of looping light.
_
Pikthall is a writer.
