The whitish, pasty face of the moon
rises full overhead,
a featureless intruder
in the dark ceiling of sparkles.
Off in the distance, a family of foxes
shriek acknowledgement
as well as disrupt my reverie.
I close my eyes again,
moisture upon the lawn
has begun to leech
into the weave of my shirt,
skimming my skin.
Minutes have ceased their count.
The great white pines
that dwarf my silhouette
are buried in thin layers of fog,
stilled, as if hypnotized,
by the orb’s persistent stare.
Though it is late,
I feel a sense of comfort,
the security of integrating
with a moment
that defines the timelessness
to which we all belong,
beyond the impositions of daily indulgence,
perhaps a glimpse of the afterlife.
A breeze chills the dampness
upon my skin,
moonlight envelopes my thoughts,
a package I retrieve
once the shiver has ceased.
I realize that one day
I will no longer be privy
to the moon’s pale intrusions,
no longer bathe in bright morning sun,
their filaments will absorb
the vapor of my absence.
|