Her

(a sonnet)

A calm, and cool, soft breeze, so warm, that floats
from moonbeams shattered off the morning dew.
The trees turn silver in the light; a hue
that comes from dreams that burn harmonic notes.
Oh sweet the smell and sound like antidotes
to the melancholy mind that lives despair
in overly repeated looks and stares.
They miss the joy of those melodious notes.
Oh dark the night with Love, it cries no more
to stars that seem to say, “Hold fast to her.”
But “her” is out of reach and grasp of mine.
A lonely song screams out the closing door.
She hides like black on a pale wind’s whisper.
I stretch my hand to catch her mist divine.