Offerings

The last fig of summer dries on the tree,
wrinkled like the sheets of time,
teasing a memory.
An autumn sun sets off the horizon
of your dark eyes, coals glowing.
I offer you the moon tied in a blue ribbon,
but you prefer the low hanging clouds
to scoop up in your hands.
Once I rested there in your palm,
moonlight a halo over my head,
its rays braiding my hair.
I cannot understand why you prefer clouds
that filter the coals of your eyes
to the moonlight that illuminates
the heavens and its secrets.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I found it best not to question my muse when she urges me to quickly write.