Snowflakes Shall Be Your Butterflies
Fog hovers over the treeless valley and the loch. The view is murky through the waves of the old glass pane, like a filter on a camera lens, turning the edges of everything a hazy shade of silver. There’s little daylight remaining. Still, up here the light stays long, and the moon is already out, waxing. Whistling wind sneaks through the small space between the old oak door and the jamb; the fire snaps in the stone hearth, wood smoke mixes with the earthy smell of the room.
“Slow Living,” and “Blessed is the Moon”
Tonight, I choose to place my singular attention
on the moon, the orb of dust and rock
and its ghostly reflection of the burning star,
and breathe in the crickets and the owls.
And it is in the lightless chill that I wonder—
what does it mean to arrive, to find
comfort in a destination reached.
on the moon, the orb of dust and rock
and its ghostly reflection of the burning star,
and breathe in the crickets and the owls.
And it is in the lightless chill that I wonder—
what does it mean to arrive, to find
comfort in a destination reached.
Desert Venus
From this distance, he’s not easy to see. Not with the naked eye. He’s old. I know that’s true. How old, I don’t know. He sits there on a beat-up couch on the porch, a big porch that wraps around part of the house and has screens on the sides to keep the bugs out. But it can’t do that too well if it’s just on the sides. I see him use his hand to swat away the eye gnats. They can be irritating late on a warm desert evening.