Poetry

Yawning of dawn. 
I scribble a note for night 
to come again. 
 
And I try to write a triolet 
in memory of moon; 
who forgot to say goodbye. 
 
A pigeon flutters in my chest 
for a beautiful bride, 
who was fond of pecans. 
 
I have not much to show 
except my trembling hands 
which could not light the - 
 
lamp in dark for once, to 
read the face of eternity.