Moon Thoughts

Your window is open to let in a part of night.
Perhaps a lamppost star drizzles a light-line there;
encased in coat of gray in day, now making a halo
at each corner that whispers direction to morning birds.

Or, a cricket rustles in the leaves a song to you
all drenched in sleep, behind your eyes you hear it
as a lullaby fenced in to yard, a nighttime friend
keeping watch, for silence it will not let in.

You fold the moon within your lips,
blow out stars with every breath
and in that deep sound of a dream they dance
around the window screen.

Your sheets are warm with length of leg
as hand grips air then opens flat on pillow;
grace is caught within the curve so sweet at rest,
I see it find a place of colored memory
where each finger trembles into touch of secret place.

From the curve of night tides turn,
the waves break and keep time with a promise,
for in the night just before first light
you hear it tell you with moon glow,
things you always wanted to know.

The night cannot explain to day
the way its canopy like a treasure chest,
holds the key to secrets 
that in the dark the heart begets.
----

How and why and when again?
I ask the ageless how become,
the sky an opening to the whim
of wondering at the window
with elbows pointing out as was before,
time backwards and the minutes leaking, gathering
and finally winking out the door.

The dark side falls into the opening
of space and time,
light is swallowed only to be spit out
and sound has no echo in the din.

There is fast like standing still
and holes that carry thunder,
wind empties all the pockets of dust
and blows them all around then under,
even lust lays back the skin a song
finding greater meaning there all along.

How and why and when again?
A child's fancy listens for a clue,
waiting at the window of the night,
knowing in the dark it is easier to hear
the answers that hide within the light.
-----

The silver slanted finger touch of moon,
drizzles light across the plains of cities;
cool in the window
it plays in the street
and hides behind tall trees
that wear their skirts high
and drip berries in the spring.

It sees the pattern of life is not flat,
on the hills and valleys it rides;
it could be water and reflect regret,
instead it digs into the meaning
and wanders off following the pull
of some magic that lives in dark.

Like a child beguiled by sign keep out,
it plays on the other side of the fence
waiting for time to make a place to slide through,
for the pattern buckles and tears sometimes
and wears so thin in places that it seems gone.

The silver slanted fingers of the moon
play like patterns weaving light and shadow;
they pull berries from the tree,
beguiled by the dripping sweet and sticky lick of dark,
waiting for a place to slide through and see,
following the pull toward the other side.