Pneuma

Nothing had remained in the room but the moist

of her sigh, a falling star, an orphan in the gleaming sky

a stolen kiss, spring morning, her shoulder-long hair

golden wavy breeze, shy beautiful glance just

escaping through the half-open eyelid, pond surface

where the loon took refuge, the osprey’s tail which

you saw or you didn’t, her fiery mound, bittersweet

surprise like her breath that stopped momentarily.

That night it rained so heavily no one could hear

our moans. And about our sins, what was their purpose?

I like those who don’t keep for themselves even a drop

of pneuma but struggle only to be pneuma of virtue.

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