In the stillness of moonlight a lonely <br />trumpit player sits. <br />He bleats out an uncertain melody. <br />There are its hooves, like a horse, it <br />has galloped off. <br />All night echoes converse with stars and angels. <br />Perfectly armless and eyeless it widens crannies. <br />It goes through holes and flows off an old bridge. <br />It goes into the marshy lip of a stagnant pond. <br />It is not easy to discard this host. <br />This malaise will tolerate no bystanders!<br /><br />michele kostelnik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gift-17/
