Jon Nakapalau

the ghost of a blue rose haunts pierrot this winter evening

and with whispers 

as ice petals fall soft
against glacial horizon

as shadow of thorns seep
and last loon calls to falling stars

follow this path 
and i will show you

dream fields that are dewed 
with your tears

past edge of cliffs
where the ocean calls

and you will fall awake
into that place

where last she picked me
and put me in her hair

like the moon in cascading night.