moon!
sometimes I have
to turn away
to see you
even if
you’re full,
even if most
of you
is not there
at all.
And while earlier I saw
where almost half
of you had been, it is
too soon to look
for you again.
I have become, since
winter,
a sea reading your stones over
and once more, always one
more once more.
But the light
is poor when
you are this thin,
this concealed in mist.
And I am not pagan
enough to pray
the sky part for me . But oh
how, under this skin
a petition,
its ink
tattoo:
the flight
of two
herons
against the slow
coming of spring,
ushering in all this
tremendous
green.
For the first time I
see:
how they split the months
of the grey
the
trees have seen—leafless
branch-fingers splayed
against your face
like the an elderly,
whose hands
are fixed
with holding
and letting
go—
their every
possible theme
of green inside one
single blade
one single
leaf.
The winter
has broken open
for good,
releasing these timbre’d
meters
of rain. The light, while widening
deepens
the trees.
But I
have missed
you.
Your cool prose.
Your fulls your
slanted folds
of shadow.
In times
like these
I ache
to scroll
my skin, to read
what of you I’ve
encrypted
there.
The blue
root. Fast. But not.
memorizeable. But not.
Like light I don’t want
to loose
to see.
Winter
does this
to me. But
maybe all
that’s
held up
in the untimed sky
will keep my hand
from falling limp
against it all,
and one more
word
one more
shade of green
will adorn me
after all those months
of snow
beautiful :)
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