Roger G. Singer

Abandoned Shadows

A weaving of willow branches brushed
evening into song. The sun pressed the
last of color through scattered thin
clouds.
From her chair on the porch she lifted
A crescent smile at me, cold like
autumn moon light, pressing back
my august warm hands, stopping my
steps.
She laughed. Her cheeks lifted at
my weakness, mocking my wants
and needs into abandoned shadows,
buried deep under her name.

{Poem by Roger G. Singer}