The mist rises:

It hangs like a tattered curtain over the meadow.
(Why must I lie here and wait for darkness...and for him?)

I view it from the grass.

The mist creeps:

It crawls over the flowers, curling and climbing above the trees.
It is cold; it is chilling; it has no feeling.
(Neither did he, my Night-Wing, who brought me to this place--with his sharp kisses and
promises of dark

I shiver in the grass.

The mist disappears:

It dances into nothingness under the warming fingers of the sun, dwindles into a wisp of gray gone.
(A prisoner, I wait--for the moon and its coldness to free me so he and I may touch again.)

I lay cold in the grass.

(This poem was written during my angst-filled university days. Under the title "Epitaf," it was featured in the February (second) issue of Sounds of the Night Magazine, 2008.)


  1. Mary Ricksen // January 24, 2009 at 2:06 PM  

    I love it Toni. I always am intrigued by the mists of morning and late nite. Scary to a kid.

  2. Beth Trissel // January 24, 2009 at 5:20 PM  

    Very poetic. Excellent, Toni.

  3. Anonymous // January 24, 2009 at 5:37 PM  

    Mary is right...scary to a kid :)

    Love the picture. Perfect for the piece.

  4. Scarlet Pumpernickel // January 24, 2009 at 5:48 PM  

    And things that go bump in the night. Man, this sounds so like a vampire is gonna get somebody!

    Scarlet--glancing over her shoulder

  5. Scarlet Pumpernickel // January 24, 2009 at 5:49 PM  

    Now Mary knows what time I arrived home from the meeting!


  6. Mary Marvella // January 24, 2009 at 7:27 PM  

    Yes, I do, Scarlet. Glad you were there!

    How did I miss that angst filled girl!

    What a way with words.

  7. Joanne // January 26, 2009 at 8:45 AM  

    Wow, Toni. You are so talented!

  8. Nightingale // January 26, 2009 at 1:20 PM  

    Excellent, atmospheric piece. Puts you right there with poor Lucy.