Dark mornings staying dark
longer, another autumn
come, and the body one
day poorer yet,
from restless sleep I wake
early now to note
how the pale disk of moon
caves to its own defeat,
cold as yesterday’s fish
left over in the pan,
or miserly as a sliver
of dried soap in a dish.
Oh for a sparkling froth
of cloud, a little heat
from the sun! I shiver
at the window where I plant
one perfect moon-round breath,
as I liked to do as a girl
against the filthy glass
of the yellow school bus
laboring up the hill,
not thinking what I meant
but passionate, as if
I were kissing my own life.
~Mary Jo Salter “Moon-Breath” from The Surveyors
And who has seen the moon, who has not seen
Her rise from out the chamber of the deep,
Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber
Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw
Confession of delight upon the wave,
Littering the waves with her own superscription
Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us
Spread out and known at last, and we are sure
That beauty is a thing beyond the grave,
That perfect, bright experience never falls
To nothingness, and time will dim the moon
Sooner than our full consummation here
In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.
~D.H. Lawrence “Moonrise”
the moon looked into my window
it touched me with its small hands
and with curling infantile
fingers it understood my eyes cheeks mouth
its hands(slipping)felt of my necktie wandered
against my shirt and into my body the
sharp things fingered tinily my heart life
the little hands withdrew, jerkily, themselves
quietly they began playing with a button
the moon smiled she
let go my vest and crept
through the window
she did not fall
she went creeping along the air
over houses
roofs
And out of the east toward
her a fragile light bent gatheringly
~e.e. cummings “the moon looked into my window”
At times, I’m amazed at the heat of my own breath.
Forming a cloudy mist on a cold day,
a round fog on the mirror or window,
a warming of my ungloved fingers.
This breath that I was given at my beginning
is a gift I rarely think about,
a fragile gift I take for granted.
Nightly, as the moon honors the sun,
reflecting its glory like a faint echo
gathering in its light and warmth,
I treasure the heat and heart
of that first gift of breath so long ago.
Soli deo Gloria.
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Make a monthly donation
Make a yearly donation
Choose an amount
Or enter a custom amount
Your contribution is deeply appreciated.
Your contribution is appreciated.
Your contribution is appreciated.
DonateDonate monthlyDonate yearly
Barnstorming 