When the Moon is Right
/Morning stars.
One wonders how vision changes the definition of beauty.
An uncalculated life leaks around the scab – so this is peace.
Remnants of vain desires cause an itch I do not have to scratch.
When the moon is right, it is right.
*
Fog and mist rises with hesitation from the predawn pavement like the idea of no me without you.
A question of what I want lingers, thick yet translucent.
Light knows best.
But so do bees and bears.
3 a.m. disappears accordingly.
*
Potato leek soup and warm bread.
October begins departure as it must, but I am not ungrateful for her lessons in love.
The dog walks with me but no one else and that is okay because it reminds me of whom I have not yet forgiven.
How clear the air; how softly the light bends through gold and bronze!
Firewood stacked the way my dad taught me – it's almost time to burn.
*
A new, bigger compost pile, the last of the greens, and turning the earth before it freezes to make room for the larger garden come spring.
Mom wants to tell me a secret but I decline on account that I cannot tell Kyle.
Yes, hypocrisy; yes, a better way pending in my willingness.
Maybe Montreal?
The last sentence says one thing but means another – tell me you understand.