Senses
By: Anyssa Q.
Crisp and brisk and cold was it;
and shivered as a frostbit lip;
this curling clarity of rarity,
this stream that rushed before me.
And tall were they at lunar lip,
while the sun was tucked at midnight hip,
the white-cloak alpine reaching towards the stars,
this silent dusky eventide.
Above the horizon a swipe of violet,
a gray sworl and blue dye to it;
blotted with black and better yet
sprinkled with billions of stars.