When the World Turns Dark

by Steve Klepetar


No one speaks the language
of sparrows, no one cries.

Here on frozen paths your face
lights the way or seems to spill

a lantern’s glowing blood down
hooded valleys where dead stars fall.

And your voice calls me
back from the well and your eyes

burn a message on my wrists
and arms. Your hair is a curtain

of flame. Fire in my chamber,
coals in the hall – all these wonders

in December when the world
turns dark

and glowworms wriggle
underground where thoughts

struggle in nets of steel and even
jugglers can’t help but muff the moon.

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