The silver serenade of the full wolf moon has begun, finessing the notes balanced on either side of the harmony, laying the melody out like a silk coverlet across the winter grass. There’s no chorus, just verse after brilliant verse.
She wears a magnificent halo as she slips out of the dark cloak of clouds on the eastern horizon and into the negligee of the open sky. She holds it loosely about her as I practice my simple qigong folded into her glow.
As I finish and head home, her wispy gown falls to the floor. The stars stare with their beady eyes. The river sparkles with her gaze. I gasp at the beauty she has bestowed upon me.
Then I leave the world to its turning. I understand that this symphony of light and clouds is a one-time show – temporary, like winter itself. I understand that stepping onto the precipice of the night is only the promise of morning.
Some things will last, I understand that, too. But not much from human hands. I am content with the passing through, tossing a poem or a song here or there, being alive at the exact moment when the moon comes alive for the very first time. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
I first stumbled on this poem earlier in the afternoon when I laid down for a rest. Whoa, it said. Not so fast. I was stone sober then, not so now. I want to read your poem aloud but it is late. Maybe Ilona will let me whisper it in her ear. I even like the lines I’m uncertain about. Bravo.