“Aura," he whispered, "I wish I could wipe away just one of your tears. Then
I'd feel like a person again. Like I'm something more than a bunch of light.”
― Jeri Smith-Ready, Shade

Woodsmoke wreathes
Through the frosty autumn night,
Rising silently
Among the nearly leafless trees
And vanishing into the velvet dark
Where a ghostly ring encircles
A yellow harvest moon,
And twinkling stars play peak-a-boo
Behind bands of glowing clouds.
Along a forgotten roadway,
Before a certain house,
Rising weathered and turreted
Over dry fountains
And overgrown gardens,
A figure of a woman glides,
Her hair
And her ethereal gown
Barely brushing
The rough, brush ground;
One hand reaches before her
The other rests
Upon her swollen belly,
Protecting the child
That was never born
As she searches,
Always,
For the peace
That eludes them both.
  
c. 2021