You and The Moon
24 hours and counting down,
before the next full moon,
I find myself clinging to the “i’s”
and crossing the “t’s.”
The wind is a flute,
that plays from every direction,
the poppy fields wave in the breeze;
living life inside a poem,
is almost always beautiful
and almost always lonely.
If there were someone else to share this with,
I doubt that I’d be writing.
Instead, I would be tracing our figures in the shadows,
upon the castle wall,
walking with you holding hands,
the desert air so sterile and clean,
like fluorescent sheets in the moonlight,
blowing on the line.
Not one cloud to disturb
of pure love.
Poetry is just poor company,
a stand -in,
a rebounding second best.
Although it’s true my blood runs through each verse;
where is the harmony?
There’s no one now to share my breath,
I just breathe each one to stay alive
I take each step, to put a little distance
between me and your untimely death.
Nine years now and still you ask for one more poem
in a field of red flowers with the moon on high,
What can I do?….but acquiesce.
that have already been cried,
have no place running down my cheeks.
Go save them in big books
of pressed flowers,
that stale smell of faded perfumed lace.
Even if you are but a memory,
some nights, like this,
bring you back to the living-side.
It is never my idea…
I have done well enough without you;
no, its always you and the moon,
who start it all over again.
July 22, 2021