The silver harps of moon rays strum
through jet black woods, erased tree trunks,
absent starlight, empty paint stroke taken
from the back of canvas, to sing
the stolen music of the moon.
The woods, between, flits the moon, silver harp.
Did I mention it is a silver harp?
A singing, moaning, boogie harp,
I hear it quite clearly (except I keep
bumping into these trees—it is so dark.)
If only I could see the moon, I could be the moon.
If only I could escape to the world of the moon!
Strut in the plane of easy elasticity that wraps, coddles,
styles and sleekens, fashion that really does something for you;
silver lips mouth the words in the sensual manner that made
the perfect screen test, that made the starlet famous, the perfect
alabaster arms, hair … let it shine down on me. Lose the trees!
I am not out of the woods yet, I stumble over hidden roots,
kick through last year’s leaves covered with this year’s. There’s
a road here, but it’s not the road I seek. I want to be up there,
with a warm moon, a June moon, want to be a big moon,
the bigger of dreams, the better that cannot measure
the depth of the moon as it rests on the surface of the lake.
That’s what I want, a full round maternal moon that will give me suck
bear me upon an elevated road far from the slivered silver glimpse, film
broke stutter of invisible trees full motion masquerade. The flick of branches
across my eyes admonishes me to remember the root of moon struck and how
it came to be …
at which precise moment I sprawl into the wet, near mud
of the road through the woods. I make obeisance to the fool king,
mad child of the sun, sometime golden, sometime chill as a fish
bone. Cream pie splats of me and the dust are music to moon ears.
The woods silently whisper, “We told you so; stick to the road,
before it sticks to you.” Cryptically, perhaps. Roots entwine my
ankles to drag me down a notch or two. The moon lends a hand
and raises me to my feet. “Wishes are not meant to be kept,”
it whispers, pathing me along the way I would follow—
one foot upon a pole to trip me, the other resting in the air;
there is music in my climbing and when I fall, I fall singing.
Peterborough Poets 