December 13, 2012MOON ON THE WING
The wee hours...
They belong to the mothers
They belong to the lovers
They belong to the lonely who stare at tv sets
They belong to the loved who leave one in bed for sunrises and cigarettes
The wee hours, yes, they belong to the babes
They belong to the writers,
to the mourners,
to the ghosts out of their graves.
Listen to the crickets.
Listen to the moon.
Is she comforting to you-- or does she arrive too soon?
She speaks not to me,
but perhaps you hear the sound.
Does she whisper or sing? Is she quiet or loud?
To me, she is cold and distant and blue
Unless she is low and enormous and gold
when she shines like that, I could swallow her up
I'd let her sink deep down into my gut and glow
If I glowed like that maybe then you'd know
how true is my aim
how real is my path
how much I am seeking
how I don't want to do this alone...
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