Susan M. Boogher

YOU are the shooting star

That pales the Pleiades.

You are the frost

That fires the autumn trees.

You are the sunset

Upon cloud-lost peaks.

You are the silence

Music seeks.

You are the wind-winged dream

I waken to and banish.

You are the hands that beckon me,

And beckoning, vanish.

Across the grass

Yours are the white veils

Of obliterating snow….

You are everyone I pass,

And no one that I know.