Natasha

A long Summer night
and you look out the window
staring at the sky’s gypsy.
She is patched soft
with rags of mist.

A few stars straggle on her hair
blowing as dark wind through the trees
and past fence rails dug hard
into the soil like broken-off heels.

You mend sorrow
by gluing lost moments
back on memory’s shoes;
but traveling home in thought
only throbs more
when you crave the shadow
of ferns brushing cobblestone
as his cottage door comes into view.

Half open,
its narrow frame
hangs brown and rough-grained
like a monk’s robe trailing ivy.

Inside,
light slants the small room golden
and you see his face
shining on your skin
as if it were a chalice
held up to passion at noonday mass.