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Half Moon Revisited

October 29, 2012

Ashfield, Massachusetts

Half Moon Revisited
(or, Honoring the Past)

Saturday
I wandered upstairs and down and room to room,
Recalling, without regret.
I walked Main Street after dark, to remember.

Then I wrote and wrote so much more than anytime before, till night was spent.

Sunday
I walked the side streets, faster and farther than we’d ever gone.
Golden light drew me to birch groves, and thoughts of shutter-gifts from you.
I lingered at the bench.
The gazebo sat me down and a whirlwind kicked up and blew stinging sand – drama,
like the first time – thunder, lightning and driving rain,
and your warm leg against mine.

I pause, not too close to the couch – where I might fall into that moment again.

I write and write and write of love – thousands of words of love.

Monday
I pulled open the door to St. Johns and sat vigil in the Easter pew,
silently reciting the poem that came as a miracle while there with you.
I walked in the clear cool beauty of black night.
I stopped, stood, still –
looking through the branches of the kissing tree to the brilliant, perfect half moon.
Could you see it out your studio window? Would you think of me?

I stood in the driveway and leaned my back against you
and felt your arms wrap around me.

I look up and drink in the milky-way while a billion stars twinkle wink at our ghosts.

Tuesday
I see that, all the while, you were writing a sweet story of play-acting in your domestic life
with your “love found” as your bride.
You wove in dangling thoughts of the same half moon and the same stars.

Wednesday
Speaking strictly for me (ref. JB to BD in D&R),
the moon and stars will forever be ours,
indifferent to our new loves.

Thursday
This poem.

Friday
Before I leave here, my writing done, the story will be finished, finally over,
and it’ll long since be time I hear no more from you.

Saturday
Jerome and Topaz dance to Little Trip To Heaven.
The End.

Sunday
I drive home under a blanket of hurricane clouds knowing the full moon shines above.
I’ll return to my life, and you’ll remain in yours.

Birch Trees in Ashfield, Massachusetts

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