How comes a wounded soul -- capricious,
to so revel in day-dawned gentle rain?
The bond with nightly agony breaks; lush
misery of malady – now inane.

Times be when harsh bedeviling self brings
needs coddling; a stricken mind foresees
eternity of aimless wandering.
And false heart flutters as it tries to flee.

While still aghast at happenstance … unfair
of scented air to weaken fugue, now, when
blood needs heat! Oh, Nature’s wiles; winsome lair,
I cannot stop my hand – come here, my pen.

With golden strokes the fright conjoins to hell,
and sense improves as sunshine beams “all’s well.”

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/5/04