GOLDEN MIST

 

In a night with no tomorrow
they danced,
crackled,
rose into the air.

 

In the blackness
they moved,
whirled,
faded away.

 

Orange, red, and yellow,
they rose,
fell,
died.

 

He, without a word,
watched them,
admired them,
envied them.

 

For they were.
They were born,
burned themselves away,
then died.

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WHAT PASSED THROUGH THE NIGHT

 

 

Suddenly
the starry night
gave birth
to an apparition.

A second,
a fraction of one,
then once again
— nothing.

Was it real?
Imagined?
A dream?
A mere vapor of the mind?

No —
it was there
for an instant,
then died.

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