• Tricia D. Wagner

Nights on Spice Island #1.9

Updated: Sep 11

Like a bone not set right,

I sit this night and watch the darkling east for -

I know not what.

I know not what to pray for,

I can't sense the hunter.

A sequence of footsteps -

I find no mirth in the stars.

And then, at the rising of chill wind,

I light a fire.

The fire, not allied, blows out.

I find what warmth I might

under the canopy of dark wood.

A voice speaking.

It comes.

Comfort might lie in sleep, if sleep I can reach.

Comfort lies in a whispered prayer for the sun's swiftness.

However - I need not to pray.

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