I had intended to write a ghazal for number 19, as you might infer from the cross-outs on my draft, but the poem took its own turn and decided to scrap that in favor of its own unique form and rhyme scheme. So be it.
He of the forest was silent, having seen the gossamer glow
of voices too small to hear
and before dawn, his antlered crown dipped low
beneath the half-moon’s sterling sheen:
She gave him the breath of twilight
and seeded secrets in his ear
to wake him from quiet, breathless night
and leave him somewhere between.
A curious ab, ac, db, dc scheme. Something about dreaming and waking.