Feathers and Figments

Night Play

While darkness accumulates,
she sheds expectations 
like chameleon lace.
A waterwheel of wings
rattles her window;
the pane rises
in the Moonhawk’s beak.
She slips inside his coat
feathered by scent of cloves,
moves behind his eyes.
They fly beyond 
an eyelash of moon
until dawn’s pulse
sends a bead of  honey
to her lips.
She returns
hungry for words.
                - Penny Wilkes