White Bear
Waiting.
Curling slice of moon.
One month.
Hungry, pacing.
Frozen inside.
Will she...?
Then she comes, through the trees.
A great easing,
melting,
unbinding.
Hope.
Feel her above,
legs against my skin.
Moving through meadows,
undersea.
When we stop,
drinking in her voice.
Her purple eyes.
She came back.