Becoming Less

Catch the waning
moon. It may not come
back tomorrow.

The traveller stops
under the sun, not to ask
for shade. The anger
was rising.

Like candle light
brightening your face
in autumn halo.

Would you like
to read a love sonnet
to retrieve the lost
Taj Mahel?

Squeezing the cool
bright moon in a glass of
drink, I want to see you
mutable moods.