Brightly colored yarn
All stitched and hemmed together
Leave the rhyme out of this.
The walls, they smell of chalk
And not of you.
Grape seeds and pomegranate leaves
Find your foundries, and leave the
Rest of us be.
And whatever this was that was bothering me inside, has been left to wilt, left to die on the sidelines. Because it isn’t as if I hadn’t been there, been there, been there before. And it isn’t as if, I never will again. As much as we all want to move up and up, ever on and forward, we can’t pretend we’ll never run the same old circles. But whatever good things we have, we can only hold them as tightly as we might moths: however quickly they may lose their shining scales against our greedy, holding shells, oh well, oh well. You tighten, you lose. At least the earth gave them permission to float at all. At least, for a moment, we can say we had it all. Just as lightly green Luna moths dance around in or around my head, the hands of my clocks let lose the blocks they hold fast to and drop. Where is that moon, where is our tide, they ask, at last? Gives us our tides, our ticks, our seconds so that we may continue on our path. But the moon, oh she was so busy, unable to fill up her wine glass. Those days she needed off, she gripped her temples hard and said just leave me alone! But the world it kept on turning, the sun he never stopped burning, and the two danced wildly in dizzying perfection around her. Poor moon, always with no one to toast her a job well done, and all those fans looking up from their back porches asking this is what I want, this is what I want, what the hell do I want? But, no. She has no face, no hands, no wine glass, no state of imperfection. The moon, she is simply the moon, and no latent amount of word and poetry will give that to her. And let that be a lesson, to all of us spending our time groping for the moon: we had it in our possession the whole time, we just mistook it for our shoes.