Cycle (Estrangement) Poem by Cheryl Renaud

It's called a whimper-
that dryness lining the concerted
folds of your smile
almost like a disruption
everything can be dim
and I can try to extract from
your face golden crescents
that glare like a binary sunset
I would wait tip-toed at the end
of my angel's wing for
you to sparkle
Yes, tethered to sleep-twisted sheets
my hands laced with dreams
my head wandering afar-

maybe, in Asia counting spring
lambs as they silver in
a glass of water.
_________________
(15 August 2001)