The white moon
weeps the
color of night
and each of your
tears
is a star
upon the floor.
Red-eyed birds
sing
to your
red, raw heart
and take wing
in the rose-colored
morning.
Though
the color of night
still dreams on
your skin
dawn
dresses you
in softer
pink skirts.
Don’t be afraid
to carry them
both
the pines will
know
one who loves
still walks
in this world.
