Moonpath,
silk road,
where some fragment of soul
follows the bright water,
trading calumny of day
for the horizon
of a lavender night
and pillow’d dreams.
With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and with wishes that my tired country
can find peace within itself.
The world is gauzed
at times
and will not yield
to my need
for surety.
Blurred
smeared on itself
hinting at substance
in foamy light
dissolving at the edges
into what it isn’t,
it turns me inward
to look there.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
When brutalities of day
give way
to candlelight of moon
do we find ease
and breathe
stillness?
Or do we ask
is it mere mask
for predator
conspirator
and illness?
Those of us who try to write struggle to find words for the anguish. Maybe there are none.
Oddments 