Someday time as we know it will stop for each of us.

Copyright 2008, Jerry W. Engler



Whirling in dark linens,
she waltzes through the glazed
and crystalline winter whiteness
over the spaced monolithic stones
of Miller's hundred-foot mound.

And even when
she raises her skirt
in icy morning fog,
the stones refuse to share
their memories of milennia.

Set in three-foot rows,
one-two-three,
one-two-three,
they wait,
the shells of past seas
held tightly in their grips,
for the shadowy, wispy dancers,
in bonnets darkly dancing
against the clear-cast moonlight,
who laid them there to rest.

They wait once more
for spirit world
to dance upon
the deep blackness of earth,
in waltz that takes
her winds away
in full light twirls
of endless mirth,
no clothing,
only creator nudity.