Meet me in the courtyard, as the clocks 
steel hand strikes the midnight hour, when 
the nights deep blue kisses the leaves of trees 
– and dew clings, like a creeping thing. 

Find me in that familiar place, where 
shadows dance across landscapes, 
leaving tawny spots atop the hills, 
swaying between silver-tipped daffodils. 

You know, the secret place – 
where the grief sinks heavy as a
sailors anchor below the bow, 
and mourned fish fashioned in feeble 
fins swim slow and lowly. 

Let us dance there a while,
hidden keenly from prying eyes 
who would only mistake our stomping 
heels for joy – for joy has long been 
a knocking guest who has not entered. 

We will press our hands together 
and gaze with strange wonder 
as the moon casts its gleaming net. 
This is where we know each other best. 
In the sinking grief, we are honest.