I don’t know the science
behind why memories
of the moon are vague
from the ‘70’s
but I know
we spend an awful lot of time
dissecting every crevice now
and though I’m drawn to facts,
I don’t like reality standing alone.

You may be wondering
in what artistic scene
I have placed myself in
at the moment of this writing.
I’m trying to staunch the bleeding
from a cuticle gone awry.
I’m waiting for tea to brew,
which is its own poetry.
Having just finished
half of a loaf of banana bread,
along with watching the last episodes
of a good detective show,
I am binging alone,
which is what leads to staring at the moon,
counting craters.

She turns into a quickening storm,
his song falling
along her neck
from a thousand miles away,
a low humming
like rocks under a creek bed
celebrating sun
(her day has not yet found his night).

No remorse
with the song unsung
but loved
and he tells her,
‘your heart is not wanting;
trust it.’

It’s not a slowing down
to meet a still, natural state
but a non-hurried
inhalation
of cavorting blades of grass,
the swivel of sun
amid dipping clouds,
tapping of toes
to a faraway song
and a glint of years
running through my hair
that keeps me aground
yet soaring with renewed
spring in my fingers.

In breaking skies,
she forgot
how his cry pierced
her heart;
sadness
blew west
where winter perched.

His glimpse of her
through mist
tipped joy’s echo in
his throat;
it tasted
borrowed,
of summer wine.