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The Serious Moonlight

The Serious Moonlight

 

 

It’s just a trick

the owl plays

to fool the ears

of evening prey—

it finds a branch

not too far off,

then calls, first loud,

and then calls soft,

an illusion.

I have no will

to dupe your heart—

to linger close

but play I’m far.

No, I just want

to be where you are

and be caught

in the ravishing moonlight.

 

 

 

But it not just another culvert, the aorta.

One Return

 

 

 

calling me collect,

that bum of a memory

I kicked out years ago

One Question

 

after William Matthews

 

 

like the universe, ever expanding,

ever moving beyond its center,

is that what love is?

One Healing

 

 

 

opening the wound to the air—

staring at it, how slowly, imperceptibly

it heals

One Because

 

 

 

Sometimes

nothing

happens

 

still we arrive

to be wrestled

by a poem

 

sometimes

what emerges

has wings.

November 26

 

 

 

No one will remember that this is the day

that my son and I stayed home

and he watched movies and I

met deadlines for work. It was the day

that I didn’t finish drying the apples,

the day I didn’t listen to a single song,

the day no snow fell in the yard.

It was, however, the anniversary

of Howard Carter opening Tutankhamun’s

tomb in Egypt, still virtually intact.

It’s still a few months from the day

he’ll discover the inner burial chamber—

for now, he is still ablaze with the thrill

of beginning, hopeful he’ll find

the sarcophagus. Does he know yet

that it will be made of solid gold?

The world is ripe with beginnings—

even in this season of dying and cold,

there’s always so much left to discover,

so much we do not yet know.

Eventually the movies are over and I finish

my article about Tuscan architecture

and my son and I again begin. No one will

ever remember how this is the day

we spent hours together at a table

with a puzzle fitting the thousand pieces in.

But I am still ablaze with beginning,

still in the thrill of his youth. I don’t yet know

where our lives will go, but I’m giddy

on laughter that only we two can hear,

the rest of the house quiet, no bells,

no shouts, no hum of the fruit as it dries.

 

 

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