Day # 273: A Path Lit By The Moon

#273

A Path Lit By The Moon

I draw the child’s yard.

That’s my picture,

her scenery.

She draws a picture.

She advances from scribble

to Mommy and Daddy,

the cat and me

I draw the child’s landscape

where she finds her pirate ship

becomes “mommy”

She draws the picture

giving clues to

the unseen.

She uses her magic fingers.

Collects her wits around her.

Unleashes her tensions.

Screams with delight.

Another word for God is hope

That deep desire that all

will turn out well

That the moon

china white - full

announces a peaceful night.

          II

The china white moon

stands watch over

my dreams tonight.

The moon is my canopy

 blessing me.

Another word for hope is God.

Bone china cups

fragile with a thin gold line

around the rims,

line my Mother’s pantry cupboards.

Another word for routine is comfort.

Bone china harvest moon

no longer full

illuminates the path

of my dreams.

A train comes through the

cafeteria.  I board it

leaving my food behind

and then I cry out.

“No I don’t want to leave

the safety of my dining area.”

In my dreams, I’ve never been

To anywhere I do not know.

Yet, I do not know these buildings.

I do not know this geography. 

They appear Southern to me.

I just feel the gray

illumination of the

bone china moon.

My dreams collapsing

on one another.

My dreams screaming

to be heard - to be

known by me - known by

my heart.

My heart screams

out “let go of it all.

Accept the new path.

Accept the moon’s light,

Forget the sun for awhile.”

I think I should be more afraid

I’m not.  I’m nervous,

I am unsure.

Can I follow

the path in moonlight?

I draw the picture of her scenery

I didn’t draw my own.

I didn’t know what it looked like.

She draws the picture

of her Mother’s breast

It’s full nipple leading

straight up to her.

wrestling with magic.

          III

Portions are too small.

They’ve been minimized.

Cut apart to the point

where they almost don’t

matter any longer.

Eroded - taken down,

particle of sand

by particle of sand.

Portions of love.

Portions of grief.

Portions of kindness,

Of sweetness,

Of you.

They’ve been beaten on

like smashing a slice of veal

They’ve trimmed away,

toned down, made tepid,

diluted.

Trained to only speak

when spoken to.

They’ve been cauterized.

Burnt to a small sealed tip,

clamped, buried,

sawed off.

Chomped on.

Portions are too small.

Nutrition removed.

Depth erased.

Hills flattened.

          IV

I draw the picture

Of our safety.

The long full swing

that sways back and

forth into the pine.

You draw the picture

of our unity,

listening to the

path lit by the moon.

9/30/2010  It was raining then, too.