William A. Norris

SOMETIMES, O changing one,

Your feet are like white foam

Riding the long blue rhythms of my thought—

Like foam on a subsiding lake

In the hour next before sunset.

And sometimes your feet are leaves

Red from the first frost,

Whirling into the corners of my mind,

Whirling into the sunlight again;

Dancing, chaotic,

Gay in their brief autumn.

But sometimes

Your feet are like black velvet,

And you move without sound within the shadows;

You circle the firelight of my thought.

And I, by the red fire that fights the shadows,

Wonder what prey you seek—

I, not wholly at ease.