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Tryst
I will wear my gown of dusk-blue silk,
And in my hair
A crescent moon, curved like a petal.
From the rim of the shadowy pool
I will pluck an iris-
Dusk-blue, shading to purple,
Faint-scented as the breath of sandalwood.
Softly
I will come through the drooping willows.
Ellen Margaret Fanson
The leaves will catch at my gown,
Dusk-blue
In the purple shadows.
The grasses will whisper, sighing,
As if they knew.
Down at the wall
I will wait alone in the darkness;
And close my eyes,
Dreaming that I hear your voice.