“Mom,” he says, “come quick.”
He pulls me out on the porch
to stare at the three-quarters moon.
“Mom, don’t you think
it looks purple?”
He says it with such urgency,
such thrill. I can make out
the violet edge and hum
in agreement. For a minute,
we hold each other and stand
in marvelous attention.
The night grass is lit,
a touch of purple in it,
even the dirty socks on the lawn
seem rinsed with light.
There is a wholeness I sometimes
doubt. It’s easier to see
what is broken. But whatever
it is that is whole tonight
has always been whole.
I fall into it like an ocean.