GOLD

A last moth drawn by a crystal light,
A morning sketched by an amethyst night,
A plume of breath stirred by the breeze,
A mist of white amongst the trees.
 
Gone wise sleep of my familiar bed,
Gone rising sweep of crimson red
Of vermillion tresses that chase the moon,
Timely gone but gone too soon.
 
One star seen through the powder blue,
All others lost and gone from view.
This ocean blue accepts this citrine sea
For this morning kept the gold for me.