Day 161 isolation
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago – And now she turns Her perfect Face Upon the World below –
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde – Her Cheek – a Beryl hewn – Her Eye unto the Summer Dew The likest I have known –
Her Lips of Amber never part – But what must be the smile Upon Her Friend she could confer Were such Her Silver Will –
And what a privilege to be But the remotest Star – For Certainty She take Her Way Beside Your Palace Door –
Her Bonnet is the Firmament – The Universe – Her Shoe – The Stars – the Trinkets at Her Belt – Her Dimities – of Blue.
Acrylic on canvas
from the Waiting Series