I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.
The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.
Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.
And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.
Taps and Ratamacues 
this is really beautiful. The poem actually breathes. Your meter is perfect, your word choice masterful and the image the poem creates–sublime. I could read this over and over again. It’s like a snatch of a dream and I want to hold on to it so it can’t fade away.
Thanks so much for your comments, Melinda. I appreciate it when a reader shares their thoughts about a poem, and how it may or may not affect them.
You’re welcome 🙂
My thoughts echo Melinda’s–this is a truly beautiful piece, not just read, but felt. I don’t know why, but it calms my spirit.
Thanks Kathy. I know the feeling. I’m glad you shared your thoughts.
Love your poetry…❤️