It woke me at midnight. It touches
everything, the photographs
on the far wall, the chair
that rocked meon my grandmother's lap, this bed
in its summer whites. It's quiet,
stealthy. If I sit still
long enough,I can see it move. But the light
in this room does not move.
This light is a thin dry mist,
it silversthe dog's paws, twitching
with dreams. The moon
dreams, too. It dreams
of rain.The moon is bruised with time.
It conjures bolts of fire, it sets
the mountains aflame.
Lightning, this moon.Yes. Lightning.
6/20: Again, the original is below the cut, for those interested in the process.
It woke me at midnight. It's looking at me
from the other side of the dark window.
Who drummed it up? It touches everything,
the photographs on the far wall, the chair
that rocked me on my grandmother's lap,
this bed in its summer whites. It's quiet,
stealthy. If I sit still long enough,I can see it move. But the light in this room
does not move. This light is a thin and silent
blanket, like a dry mist, it silvers the dog's paws,
twitching with dreams. What does she dream?
Does she hear the drumming? Run, run
little dog. Catch that hare, take its throat
in your domesticated teeth.The moon is thinking about wildfire, it dreams
of rain. Does it remember the sound, the shudder,
of its many wounds? The moon is bruised with time.
The moon pulls at my loosening flesh. It reminds me
of my own pulse, my own blood, my own dryness.
It conjures bolts of fire, it sets the mountains aflame.
Lightening, this moon. Yes. Lightening.
Full Buck Moon, when the new antlers of buck
deer push out from their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur. It was also often
called the Full Thunder Moon, thunderstorms being now most frequent. Sometimes
also called the Full Hay Moon.
Brilliant as always.
You gave the most wonderful surprise this afternoon when you left a comment at my blog.
Posted by: Cathy | 19 July 2008 at 06:37 PM