Robert D. Johnson The sky exults in shimm’ring stars,
In haunting curves of scimitars.
And fleeting is the Milky Way
That swirls in luminary play.
A crescent moon in haloed bowl
Transcends the artist’s tortured soul.
The firmament is bursting free
In one exquisite filigree.
And underneath the canopy,
Touched only by the cypress tree,
A village sleeps imbued in light
From magic of the starry night.