Vigil

by Janet Kizer

AKA Bard Vashtia

The night
is a green place
conscious of its power.

It does not need the light

We here in this tent
speak in tongues
narrow enough to slip
between the stars and touch heaven.

The sweet beast beside me
mourns her murdered mate.
He lies on the dead grass
shimmering blue fur
in the gutted candlelight.

I cannot watch
their dripping eyes.

I turn to the east
and the coming scarlet morning.


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