Senses

By: Anyssa Q. 

Crisp and brisk and cold was it;

and shivered as a frostbit lip;

this curling clarity of rarity,

this stream that rushed before me. 

And tall were they at lunar lip,

while the sun was tucked at midnight hip,

the white-cloak alpine reaching towards the stars,

this silent dusky eventide. 

Above the horizon a swipe of violet,

a gray sworl and blue dye to it;

blotted with black and better yet

sprinkled with billions of stars.