How they crumble within my hands Such leaves. . . the hue of night, how they crumble within my hands. . .and this moon, how its steps quicken my own. . . I can't out run the moon or the shadow of your absence, but these leaves, these frail, frail leaves. . .see how easily they scatter on the wind, how swiftly they seek to return to earth.   Scent of Thyme Plucking wayward strands. . .such frail leaves, so strong their fragrance, bittersweet on my fingers and tongue.

Return to the front page of this issue:   Amaze   Vol. 6, No. 2   Go to the Poets & Authors page for the poet's biographical sketch and email link. All poems are copyright © 2009 by their respective authors.