Oct 182014
 
Winter's roughened touch has left us, though still
in dreams we find its echo, harsh remembrancers
that we are, recalling all by pain and indignity.
Having set alarms to catch the current moon at full,
she arises from her slumbers, aroused and drowsy,
trailing gossamer glories of her nightgown
into the dim unlit living room.  She stands silent 
beside me, we stand blandly, woozily wooed to do,
to be, in all the accident of time together--
ourselves and in love--searching for the red moon
with our pajama bottoms off, the whole quiet room
luminous as a dish of water, surrounding curtains caught
in a fabulous haze as almost-fog envelopes us,
has us feel as if we exist within a cloud,
our breaths heavily lunged as if still asleep,
eyes squinted and salty as cracked pistachios 
and every window glowing cold.  Like a captain,
her hand shading out brimming halogen lights of the lot,
Jenny breathes against the glass, slow one, slow two,
and searches the skies for any trace of rouge.
We are looking for that rare, red moon
evinced from a thousand sunsets at once
when earth trails her infected fires like a kiss
across the silver deserts of Diana's moon,
too perfect-pure to blush back at us.

I had hoped, as we turned and plied about the room
that I, that we, would stumble across the moon
as I had once before stumbled into such looking luck
when walking alone the still edge of a wood
I came across a sleeping dappled fawn quiet as leaves,
curled simple in an unattended nest.

My walking-stick stopped like a secondhand tricked
at the loss of time, my eyes gone wide in delight
to see this dim thing that seemed but shadows
of the sun, sun-flecked, white-floating spots
of indifferent light, the dappled overcast of a low-
hanging dogwood tree confusing all, confusing me,
until the creature curling there seemed no more
than an intensification of the grass, brown-white
below, before me, its fallen breath a breathing
of all the earth herself, those long careful legs
snipped together like sleeping shears, the paired ears
leanly alert: focused, still and present, upon myself
even as my whole attention fell to it--our mutual life
of a moment's dewy duration--and then led on
by a sort of baby-snort, a twitch around the muzzle,
I came all at once to see--those eyes!
I cannot tell their oil-depth, their ink-heart--
how all the dappled mini-cosmos round our wooded cove
was distilled to highlights in those grand eyes,
yet not diminished, not in the least diminished,
as I stared.  And I came, in time, as my wildered
consciousness grew more natively attuned,
to know that I who watched was watched,
that all I had thought was hid in me was plain
as paper: all deeds known, all recorded there--
all no more than a single spark of light
in the dark surface of that fawn's calm eye.

In all our moon-excitement, did I say how we
found the ground that April at three a.m.?  
The ground of crocus bud and of daffodil
newly come to their spring bloom, first bloom
sweet as Easter candy newly caught unwrapped?
A whiteness as of a wedding-walk was gifted everywhere.
A still, sudden frost, an April frost, was over all.
As if, because we'd missed the rouge moon,
this other, lesser blessing was bestowed--yet more
than bestowed if I think on it aright--strewn
like bales of dogwood petals littered everywhere.

We never found the moon that night, nor any
tippler's tainting tint of pink in all
that cloud-strewn, cloud-molested sky
that stayed a starless haze, although we stared,
finding our orientation by iPhone app and guess,
standing together on the little balcony there,
listening to trees meekly creak in their sleep
as all light drifted down to our upward eyes.
Softly, her sudden hand was at my back--
her breath a wordless whisper in my ear.
I knew, despite the sky's cloudy recalcitrance,
all I'd found.


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