Oh Weaver,

In heaven’s darkness, solstice was a reckoning, no tear ever so lonely as shed by winters moon drawing heat from midday sun into her aura, pronounced her loneliness; sleeps this night in the berth of heaven’s darkness, all manner of nomads on earth’s floor pay homage to sea and sky, owls, grey wolves, seahorses, and a bowl of tomatoes ripe from loving from lowly vegetable kingdom overcome their differences, sit together in silence, their heads bowed low, pass no judgment nor devour each other, It pleases you greatly to perform this miracle. Without warning fierce winds blow throughout the kingdom and the four earthly species become sightless, forbidden wedding between sun and moon has no witness, time suspends itself for this auspicious occasion. Her longing finds no respite in nights hush, sun consumed by her nearness carves a red talisman upon her heart inside of which slow burns his ecstasy as they lay within each other under canopied sky filled with changeling stars she whispers in his ear,

“Beloved, close your eyes I’ve a wedding gift for you.” moon places a snow cone inside his heart to quench his thirst during scalding midday heat.

such was the birth of dawn.

Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Brookins

when winter leaves bundle by the roadside
bed perfumed with elderberry wine
my heart a bottomless well of loneliness when I think of you
another night swathed in moon glow for everyone but me
Oh Weaver
why visit only in dreams
meet me under the street light
where I sleep each night on a bench
my coat turned inside out
a pillow
in the hope someone will understand my barefoot journey
walking this pass of love every dusk-filled night of my soul
if only you were the reflection I face each morning
surely you would pierce my heart
lion sits all night gazing at the moon
while honeyed she-lion
loves him back


on this cold winter day
aviaries of black birds feast on summer leavings
white tail deer munch in my garden
vagabond neighbors always welcome at our table
sometimes late in the day I see flocks of winged birds
headed for supper-fields
Beloved, guide them to your special place
where huckleberries grow wild in depths of snow
weatherman says more of the same on the way
no one believes him since he got caught
jogging naked at rush hour
© jb