Unknown to some, pale eyes gleam,
spores of hours to imprint the night,
the given shimmer to dispel drought.
Of the air you raise higher than the weed,
it pushes past sooner, sans admirers.
Open the nostrils in fragrant moss,
a stored collection of rays to burn
as fire, the radiate flower, nape white.
She blooms at twilight, relieves dust
before the dawn generates and discovers
there’s more aroma in the dark woods.
