Moon Feast

There are the regular times

Of peace:

Morning

When I wake up before the world

And catch it

Just sitting there

Not going anywhere.

And bedtime

When I finally give it all up

And stop Running.

 

It’s in between

That the going gets to me –

Doing doing doing

One thing after another

Always on deadline

Seeking some

Ephemeral

Impossible

Completion.

 

Then

Once in a while

Sanity hits me

And I walk

In the evening

To the end of town

And sit on a bench

And just look

While the sun goes down.

 

There are the valley oaks

Their brown trunks

Wearing gold brocade

The magpies flouncing

And scolding

Flaring their flamboyant tails

From tree to tree

 

And the Moon

Almost round

But not quite

Like a ball of white

Potter’s clay

In the fumbling hands

Of some genius

Still learning

To make the world

 

Then God feeds me

Placing the unfinished Moon

Perfect in its imperfection

Just there

On the blue plate of the sky

Between the sprigs of tree-parsley

A feast to quiet

The heart.

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