Dust (a poem)
The moon rises, a pearl sphere in the dark fingers of the sky; reaching toward the Earth, racing across ripping water, it squeezes through ever crack and sliver in the entwining branches of an old oak grove.
The moon rises, streaming through the window pane and kissing the edges of your skin, casting a perfect silvery glow about every corner of the box-laden room.
The moon rises, turning your eyes a mysterious shade of green, like sea foam on the rolling tide, washing over the white-sand shore and rocky cliffs.
The moon rises, at midnight, and the second story window looks out over a freshly cut hay field, where willow trees sway near the rumbling creek, like an old record playing through the night.
The moon tonight, makes me think of far away places, of moments yet to come, of memories already made, of people and seconds lost in the movement of time, lost in the turning of pages, lost in the rolling tide, in the changing wind, lost in a places where time no longer drums is fingers in impatience.
The moon rises, this moon, steady and un-moving in grace; speaking softly through the branches, through the chipped paint and cracked wood, through the cobwebs and dust covering us.
The moon rises, feeding our souls with a kind of fire, the kind of hope that extinguishes the darkest parts of our doubts and insecurities, that reignites our faith and reawakens our desire. Dancing across my pillow and landing on your fingertips, the moonlight, this light, I can see reflected in your eyes.
The moon rises, leaking over the rough tiled floor, across the steel sink, over the broken glass, the chipped pots, and the spilled water, bringing with it a new lullaby.
This time, the moon rises to a quiet house, to a peaceful place where love has been restored; while the bitter broken words of the past are left on the floor, in a pile of ash and dripping water, seeping through the cracks, and fading away in the inexplicable dust covering us all.