I'm waiting for the sun to rise between
I'm waiting for the sun to rise between
the crooked fingers of the southern oaks,
to rend the heavy clouds with a brilliant
light reflected on the bayou's surface.
I'm waiting for the moon to set between
the tall branches of the patient pines,
to marry the quiet crescent's dim white
with the tepid vibrations of the water.
I'm lingering in the undetermined place
between dusk and dawn, the mysterious
separation of the lover from his beloved.
Yet the two meet in a moment of time
beyond the trees in the garden, held fast
by a testament whispered in the leaves.
by Rod Naquin
from Sunlit, Spring 2014