Poetry
WINDOW WATCHER
Both bleached and crowned with moonlight
The huntsman stands and gazes, motionless as love;
Face unseen but flawed heart floored.
A lost and lonely weeping star perhaps,
Heatless, mourning, frozen; who can guess
For what the window watcher scours?
Moons without shepherds or ever-circling
Planet rings; or the final flickering flares
Of a worn-out sun, resolved to die?