Leone Baker

MY little new love

Is like a wistfully singing violin on a moon-drenched hill.

So I wrapped her carefully in my thoughts,

And carried her to a room

Where she might surrender her eyelids to my lips

And dry my tears in her hair.

But suddenly you were there,

Beloved ghost,

With your eyes like two open doors to sorrow’s chamber.

You were so nearly afraid to speak

Your words were blown toward me

Like fragments of mist

Distorted and scattered by wind.

But my little new love—

She who is more shy than drops of rain—

Trembled and fled from me;

And then there were only we two

Poor ghosts,

Shrinking against opposite walls of the room,

Staring.