I’ve waited a long time to see the moon

and sometimes it seems

she’s been watching me

and maybe waiting for a reaction.

I don’t think she knows how thrilling

it is to learn her craters.

I already know I don’t measure up

but we can still dance to her light.

The hills at night almost demand it.

I like the little diorama I’ve been placed

in, though I would have chosen

a different table and rug.

Flowers bloom semi-regularly here

and food is readily available

as long as I sit at a desk several hours

a week and smile and ignore

a large portion of broadcast media.

Daydreams rum rampant inside

contained spaces. I follow a trail.

She reaches for relief

but finds an unopened book

which she can barely look at

for fear of being unworthy.

She fights gravity for a cup of tea

and sits curled up

feeling unwelcome as sun pushes fog

out to sea.

What’s a memory of a fern

or an echo of moss

to the roar in the ears

from a silent fury bursting?

I’m twelve in a glade all alone,

I’m nineteen in a park with a smoke,

I’m forty-nine wishing I was six

in the meadow with just the wind.

A forest bird sings of troubles

left by the fallen tree

and it’s a miracle

I can feel anything.

Questioning the Why of my days

with their varied meter and purpose,

I can only tell you what I think-

because I know so very little:

Mostly I know few things matter

in the end because in the end,

there’s either quiet or music,

patterns or darkness,

there will be healing or we’ll forget,

you’ll be there or you won’t,

stories will last until they don’t,

and there’s little I know now

that means more than what I knew at six.