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Aurora at Dusk

There is a place that exists when Aurora rests,
where the moon dapples spider-light upon the barrenness
and the wind rings with the echoes of poets
long-forgotten.
This is the site of droughts unspoken,
and those who tread here do not speak of the shadows,
or of the secrets the shadows keep.
In this place walks a woman with slender arms
and silver bells in her ears. She twists her head,
the bells jingle; they dance, to show she's restless.
She carries a box- hers since her first fire was lit,
and she burned with a pain that she couldn't quite
articulate. She was told the box contained a secret,
one she would understand when she asked the right question.
She pauses to lay her burden upon the sodden ground.
This is as good a place as any other to start
liking the questions, and besides, the box is empty.
There is a lilting lightness to her step,
as she turns to leave this twilight half-world.
And as she departs, she jingles.

Learn more about this author, Noelle Trumbull.
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