Even after all this time, the sun does not say to the Earth, “You owe me.” (Hafiz)
It hangs low like it knows
the too much on my mind.
It just hangs til you notice,
then carries its own skyward rise.
The moon is accustomed to loss:
single ant immolated by magnifying glass
in the hands of a much too eager six-year old.
Whole anthills, colonies as tall above ground
as they are below, drowned with greedy poisons.
Fresh water pearls fall down drains.
Cheeks are slapped, lies told,
languages unspoken, music unsung
into memory’s deepest chasm.
The moon will wait.
Weeks, eras, epochs:
not an ounce of impatience,
its whole and partial sheen
expecting nothing in return.
No reciprocity, no pat on the back
for the gravity of such witness
found nowhere on earth.
There was a time my daughter would stop breathing,
six seconds at a clip, over and over, all the while asleep.
Did the moon ever wake her?
Re-rhythm her breathing
to properly oxygenate
her baby brain?
No, that was the surgeon,
who removed the obstruction
and in its place, an absence
that rings her voice with the sound of tin.
Still moonBuddha rises each night,
not waiting in the sky
but weighting the whole improbable thing:
equanimity repleting the ink heavens,
as I make of myself a light.
Posts
