Twilight

Twilight calls my name.
It's not real - the voice -
but I listen anyway.
It's my nature to follow voices.

Sun aches for winter,
fire aches for night.
I ache for the rain washed
scent of her skin.

Random acts, poverty
of soul leaves stones
turned across the heart shaped
desert floor.

One searches, but does not find
that which follows close.
The winds whisper her name,
but she belongs to the sea.


Poetry by Ron Willis