The moonlight sang that song
we can’t remember, invisible wings
cascading through the valiant wind
as the stairs insist
on climbing up.
Up.
Up where time remains an afterthought,
or hangs on the moonlight
nearly in the future. Time always comes,
playing metronome while weightless,
feigning lightness
to ease the ascent.
Ambushed by the moon
reflecting a solar absence
while waxing poetic
behind fast swimming clouds,
we sit on the front porch
waiting.
A cool fall breeze
exclaims its presence, hinting
at a storm or other ominous things
just beyond the horizon. What surprises
lay before us, hoping to astound,
to break us
from an evening reverie
as we wait?
Wait, listening
to the remaining leaves
blowing above revealing that moon,
a marvelous wonder hinting
at a universe we know
nothing about.
We know nothing of what’s beyond
these leaves, this moon, mysteries
that baffle us, sitting, waiting on
our small planet,
an island amidst the nothing
of space matter.
Then the pizza shows up and nothing
else matters.
