Between drops
Saturday, 11. July 2009, 18:28:05
...Between Drops
The moon like a hole in a perfectly black enclosure
was his only link to the outer universe.
It meant there was a sky, a night, nightly stars…
but it always was the outer verse,
always the distant song, the different story--
it became to him the essence of a dream.
He lay face-first, on the cold bottle-green,
smelled the cold earth, the mandatory home.
Then turned over, lay back down, stared
at the moon and the darkly cast unknown.
And often in this game,
half the night passed,
then the bugs ran past
a slow summer sleep.
In the kitchen a roughhewn window
brought a similar moon,
the gentle dance of air in her hair,
the likes of summer in her eyes
and a lonely mother’s care,
whose years’ disillusions deny
any necessity of this summer
or the next. For every year there
is the moon, the grass, the air,
with them the abstruse absence
of strings that bind to home.
One who is loved will only roam,
one who loves may only sense.
In her wait, she too was growing—
growing and graying in passable strain.
And in her drowse
by the fire,
she thought for once
it rained.
Summer bore (in a world of lights)
this folksy forest night,
and with the smell of the first rain
he sang so, sang so!
With the bleared green, in his new flight
he danced so, danced so!
Summer held (in her listless eyes)
this firstsoever rain.
~ Symphony
The moon like a hole in a perfectly black enclosure
was his only link to the outer universe.
It meant there was a sky, a night, nightly stars…
but it always was the outer verse,
always the distant song, the different story--
it became to him the essence of a dream.
He lay face-first, on the cold bottle-green,
smelled the cold earth, the mandatory home.
Then turned over, lay back down, stared
at the moon and the darkly cast unknown.
And often in this game,
half the night passed,
then the bugs ran past
a slow summer sleep.
In the kitchen a roughhewn window
brought a similar moon,
the gentle dance of air in her hair,
the likes of summer in her eyes
and a lonely mother’s care,
whose years’ disillusions deny
any necessity of this summer
or the next. For every year there
is the moon, the grass, the air,
with them the abstruse absence
of strings that bind to home.
One who is loved will only roam,
one who loves may only sense.
In her wait, she too was growing—
growing and graying in passable strain.
And in her drowse
by the fire,
she thought for once
it rained.
Summer bore (in a world of lights)
this folksy forest night,
and with the smell of the first rain
he sang so, sang so!
With the bleared green, in his new flight
he danced so, danced so!
Summer held (in her listless eyes)
this firstsoever rain.
~ Symphony
WIDGETIZE