Under a blanket of
blackest wool
tiny darting stab wounds bleed
yellow splinters through a night sky that borrowed it's blue from the bottom of the sea.
-In the up there.
-In the out there.
And on our wooden chairs painted crisp bay white
chipped over the years,
so the layers of paint becomes a calendar -
we sit to watch
63 moons glide gracefully,
circle daintily-
We strain our necks and whisper tightly
say the things
that move from tongues to fingertips.
Wild gestures meant to
land sooner than the bitter words.
Under the nebulae where you once
gave me a ring
which you slung round a planet
with a ladder and rope.
And you gave me a promise that's still hung round the sun
so I jump up ride it when it orbits me close.
and I'll hide in its caves when the fear-dollies chase me-
and I'll dip in the tides of bubbling foam.
In a moment of tiny,
of small
and of sooner....
in a moment that's billions of miles away
so before we've been born
and before we've been lovers-
a star somewhere tucked our whole story away.
I'll find us a night cloud
thick with our longings
I'll puff up it's feathers and send it to sea.
I'll send out a hope seed
to sell to the watchmen,
only to free it when they've gone to sleep.
Yes, I'll pack it up safely and keep it's core glowing
(for hope is a thing that you never keep kept. )
As we sit in our garden,
and we touch close our fingers
As our babies are children and those children now men.
The night scented orchid blooms urgent around us,
like small fragrant fairies that scattered below.
The 64th moon has given you passage,
she's waiting impatient, I fear you must go.
Don't look for me, darling, for I will be waiting
on the bench in the garden
where the night flowers bloom.
Sahn 5/2/15
Thanks as always.
This was written over a period of years, and edits. It evolved into a story of a marriage where one spouse dies, the 64 "moons" being years of marriage.
