A little cup of moonlight, mine,
While sharing tea in the snow
With creatures less than real.
Pretending to belong, I ponder the
First and last star I see, waiting for the
Proper word to settle in on the hills.
They pay little mind to my greeting,
Walk their way, floating with no
Imprints on the ground, as I overture again and again.
I love them, desire their company,
Wish for their abiding friendship,
Crave the warmth of smiling eyes
Still closed to earthling, me.
Laced with the icing of winter
Their strange mien captures
All there is of mystery.
— Char Duguid, Amissville