The moon has sisters that we cannot see But since they visit me Oft when I sit down with a pen, Or hear the phoenix, back from Araby, Land with a bloom of cinnamon upon the roof, Or see the frost enameled on the apple’s bark Drip, sweetened, to the virgin earth, I may tell you somewhat of them, But not with words.
Long Paths of Ink
The moon has sisters that we cannot see But since they visit me Oft when I sit down with a pen, Or hear the phoenix, back from Araby, Land with a bloom of cinnamon upon the roof, Or see the frost enameled on the apple’s bark Drip, sweetened, to the virgin earth, I may tell you somewhat of them, But not with words.