Random Poem of the Day – XI
by Michael Ball
At the coldest hour of the night,
frost spiders walk the glass
leaving glistening crystal traceries of their passage,
like ephemeral diamonds bathed in the moon’s cobalt light.
That haloed orb floats the sky with wisps of cloud at her shoulders.
She presides over the stillness of the chill night,
like a cold mistress sharing her radiance reluctantly
with lesser beings whose station is far below hers.