Yearning

Not a light in the stars

can match your eye.

What am I looking for from the roof?

I know where the moon falls

and yellows towards the river.

Water takes it.

I lean into river wind

but don't take off.

Cinders of burnt paper do-

a ragged flock escapes the chimney

from my own fire.

Where does it fly to?

I lean another quarter inch

and in no time at all

am the spectator below

watching the wild child drop.