Moon bathes the coming world of night beneath a silver tap. Dark forests are literate and receptive to meaning revealed amidst branches. Mountains bow like earthen masters who still cannot reach the sky. Winds bring lonely howls a thousand miles deep and entombed in a snow that will outlast this single winter. We are because we are; sadness built to be spilled across tabletops that hold perched elbows and sets of wanting eyes. Shadows as capable actors. Antics of this sort require a light source. I salute the moon and her ability to create two from one.
straight talk from fox
…Don’t think I haven’t
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours….
mary oliver