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.