Monday, April 9, 2018

Trying To Touch The Moon





Sometimes when silence silvers the sliver of moon at dusk
And daylight ebbs from rivers like a silk and satin husk
When blue-brusque tusk of north wind tugs at twilight’s edge and wins
And slips a cloak of velvet black across empyrean skins

When worlds slip from my windows save a wisp of crescent moon
And everything is quiet save the echo of high noon
I feel the reel of teal, maroon and amethyst enmesh
Like steel of whispers tattooed in the fabric of my flesh

And Thought is like a hunter thriving when the light is lean
Yet thought is like The Hunted plying senses quick and keen
And Night is like a body without bearing, breath or form
Yet wraps earth in its shadow taking heaven’s stars by storm

The tumult of tomorrow waits to seal its breadth to naught
Where now I spy with guessing games the outcome of mere thought
...a dot beneath the crescent moon, this spot where I am bound
Trying to touch the tip of it with both feet on the ground



© Janet Martin


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