Aubade
       

The dream melts slowly,
dripping from my arms as light
seeps its small betrayal,
cool as early March.

White thins from the spirit,
fragrance of wood-smoke fading.
Your voice drifts from my dream
to become wind brushing across glass.

Still hanging on the hook
of night, a silver shawl sways
in the draft, as your touch
pours back into the dark.

My face outside the window,
my body on the bed, bare feet
feel the grain of wood,
ankle-deep in snowdrift.

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Copyright © 2014 Patty Dickson Pieczka All rights reserved
from Painting the Egret's Echo
The Bitter Oleander Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission