Bright as day they say,
bright tonight over the pines,
outshining the stars,
kissing my ears with ghost stories,
haunting each other: astral rabble
in the witching hour.
But brighter still in Winter's blanket,
shining like the Sun-- if the Sun
weren't such an ass.
But you know what I mean,
you see me
reflected in the fringes of
your speech patterns,
and I hear many thoughts in your voice.
Brighter still they say,
and peaks to summit
and dharma-bumming in the
copper mines with our eyes to the sky.
And I wonder that some brilliance
chases me from candles
in shared spaces,
while still other
makes me grin and warms the pit of my stomach,
makes me feel my skin's alive and longs for you,
and then: the Moon.
And the fire burns in the cold air,
dispelling shadows from before me
that they might stand behind.
Neibhouring cries; the strix and striga,
and I solved your puzzle
while the candles gave chase,
smiled as the pieces aligned
and the ground shook to the fire-pulse
forgot my name again.
I could remedy my riotous neck
with a simple construing of sinew,
or strike in over-eager smartness---
but what for?
I fear the fire's smothering by cold,
yet I look and find
the heart's a heavy burden
and so, so worth the weight.
I have no desire to put my eyes out,
no hairpin temptation in self-revelation.
Only a shower after four days on the road,
the hanging moon,
and a heartbeat flash of my word upon your lips.
And all the while, your mind, it
creates another world
for all your other thoughts I am
so privileged to hear.
And I watch the fire's light
reflecting on your face,
hear the poignant sound of butter
being scraped over too much bread,
watch the waltz pass from day to night
where the fire still gives beat
and my hand searches for yours
amid the folds of a two-thousand mile bed-sheet.
I salute the Moon with a half-smile,
climb in through the window,
and spin through the night
in nebulous spirals of arrows.