oh dear fair moon might I take a bite of advice for how did you appear in the middle of my day sky but I suppose you are always there with a certain-curtain pull back so how do you bare, then? the view, not ever an interloper nor a guardian at our door a lone-cold observer from shore to shore, sights from rocky atolls to fading cliffs the observances of millennia- maybe this is jealousy? I’d invite you to dinner to hear the stories of your grand tour but can not trade for that to bear the calamity that will ensue so, alas, stay where you are perhaps another lunar trip will do oh my dear fair moon our singular notion our most loyal companion. I look up, to you.
notes… the day moon always gets my eye, I call this style stop and start, like letting the words flow and then turning the faucet off suddenly, not a staccato like I do sometimes, this is deliberate to show chain of thought, or at least that is what I am going for, kind of like a fence, a smooth line and then a post… if that makes sense, if it does not, I suppose you will just move on… as always, all comments are appreciated.
among the heavenly bodies we round cycles orbits life rises, drowns and rises again all in this procession far flung on the flight wing of a galaxy cast out in an endless ocean can this be the only outpost of hope? of life? in all this, just a drift an arm, a wisp of stars our star, the one the one we call, the sun which has defined our direction for all time such as can be counted and summed in the presence of the sun gives us a center a ballast a balance, with focus a singular form in the form we always have known our nook, our den our private fortress this little blue marble of life a miracle boat afloat in just this time in my eye to our minds tethered to a galaxy drifting our fate lie and awake open and closed in mother’s eye all in this – the presence of the sun.
are we a marker, an outlier, an anomaly, can we be? just this little branch, this dash, this splash of hope dangling off a limb of one of endless-countless galaxies, can we be alone, even in our own stretch of these woods? the possibility, yes, the possibility is there, but I choose to believe otherwise; why? I could argue the numbers, the sheer amount of possibilities that lay forth with such numbers bound out into infinity, but something inside, a gut, a feel, an instinct, maybe foolish pride, maybe I want to believe we are not just dust on a mere wind blowing by, sure, that is a fair assessment, but what else? can we pretend to know everything, in our little stint, our production run here, the perspective is almost hard to fit, not long ago this was it, terra firma, just the earth, and now the discussions turn towards mars and beyond, but these are just the closest neighbors, there is so much more, where the voyagers have now gone, barely a scratch off the heliosphere, can this twist of tiny now fate be all? the trinkets on my mantle tell a story of a life that will be swallowed and gone, blink, and yet, we live on, multiplying, generations like a constant beating heart of creation, our self importance tethered to a rock, rolling around a common star, ours, as if the sun will blink when we are gone, or just continue on, until she too runs out of the gift, the surge, the power, the sheer will of chemical interactions will cease, and then what of these, these stories, these lives, what will survive if not beams, remnants, something beyond what can be held in hands and hearts, something more, something higher, and how will we know this transformation or communicate with the others? or is there nothing, just nothing, perhaps. but I would rather invest in the wavelength, the energy ribbon, the promise, of hope. of life. for we are alive now, nothing can change that, not even the stoppage of time, so I believe, choose to believe, we survive.
Shades of My Garden 