Fog covers the town this morning
a not usual thing for us and thus notable.
But what shall I do with that fact besides
note it, write it down, perhaps make a poem
of the moodiness, the hiddenness, the mystery?
Love it, I suppose. Just love it along with each
other turn of nature: the pour of rain, the fall
of snow, the sprinkling of stars, the beams of sun.
All worth noting, all worthy of love.
Oh to dance! One feels that all of life’s little defeats
might be packed off to boarding school to do their
mischief far far away if only there were dancing
wild and true from the very core of one’s being
heads thrown back hatted or bare in wild abandon
dancing of the variety that invites all to close their
weary eyes throw off the heavy coat of inhibition
and under the night sky draw down the lights of stars.
In the middle of the ocean of sky sat
that unflappable moon full as a peach.
I dreamed it was surrounded by great
elliptical rings like the rings of Saturn.
Everyone even the nightingale even
the crying babies hushed as whole
towns fell silent watching.
Fireflies left off their flashing.
Stars quietly turned off their lights.
Clouds flung themselves away.
As if on cue a drift of wisdom
settled upon the heads of All
like soft felt hats.
On a night picnic
the languid quarter moon
canoes over our heads.
We eat slices of cool black sky
the luscious pieces slipping
from fingers to mouths
a sprinkle of sharp stars crunching
between the stony pearls of our teeth.
From the basket you pull a box of
cherries saying they are just the thing.
We lie on our backs shooting cherry pits
at the moon missing by a hair every time
and wish for nothing.