Category: Grief

Waxing Crescent (seen briefly at dusk)

The crescent, like me, is growing fatter
aging faster than expected
if I’m not careful, I might miss the jump
from crescent to gibbous

maybe the moon’s not used to such close scrutiny
having grown accustomed to hiding behind metaphor
blue moons, new moons, super moons
we paint false faces to suit our own narrative

when you really stare at the moon
you start to notice its imperfections
the craters that cover its pale face, like scars
how it cowers behind the granite clouds
the way its edges blur on sultry nights
making its surface ripple
a watercolor moon

we look without understanding
that the moon is long dead
a grey, fathomless orb
floating in the empty sky

Waxing Crescent – 8:30 p.m.

I’m waiting for the light to flicker out
so I can see the murky sky more clearly
my resolve is slipping because
it’s so much colder tonight
the wind’s breath is a warning
perhaps premonitory
of lingering snow
and concrete clouds

but what about the moon?
it’s rarely visible from the antigravity chair that rests in the center of my lawn, where the swingset once was–old and rusted (like me)

I can’t remember what colors were painted on that relic
blue and white, I think, with a smear of red
but here I am forgetting to describe the moon
yet again

in its perpetual absence, the sky is just as windblown
as the shivering trees. I’m worried about the warblers-
that they might leave before the rain comes
I can feel the heavy storm
deep within my aching bones

Waxing Crescent – 9:30 p.m.

I knew I wouldn’t see the moon
so I tried to memorize the sky

on this soft autumn night
winter feels far away
as distant as the crescent
its sharpness blurred
behind gauze-wrapped darkness

the night is as insubstantial
as the felting wool you used to love
even though the needle poked holes
in your small fingers
drawing forth fat drops of scarlet

the vibrance of your blood
is the only color I remember
because my brain is also wrapped
in felting wool

we’ll begin together
another October

can you still show me the moon?

I imagine you looking up
at age 8, the whole world
a reflected wonder
in your shining eyes

I’m settled into August
with its warm softness
watching the molting goldfinches
who gather on the upturned faces
of my ripening sunflowers
maybe they feel a kinship
with the golden petals
mistaking them for wings
sprouting from the ground
folded over a treasure of seed

maybe it feels like returning
to that first nest
where dandelion-bright plumage
and open beaks
meant they were home

now they cling to the nyjer feeder
while bumblebee wings
slowly lose their gleam
and September inches closer
with its crisp, harvest moon

it started with a yellowing
as if sunlight exploded from hollow bones
to shine and shine and shine
until we slide past midsummer
into the inevitable twilight
and the goldfinches began to turn
the color of desert sand

I recognize the shape of it, having balanced
its shifting weight for as long as forever
still, I don’t always see it coming
even when the shadows fall
over the vivid bright of summer, darkening
the colors, stretching itself
until
all that’s left is distortion
and this ruins the fun, you see,
it unravels all the good intentions

But, also, guilt can feel empty, a void
blossoming up around me
like some scentless, colorless flower
siphoning my joy because the weight of it
never changes or the cold, flat truth
like dull iron, nonreflective
I smell the metal
it has the faintest taste of blood
coppery with rust
blackened around the edges
oxidized yellow, festering

the wound is septic

the rot’s a living thing

it smells sweet and bitter
like cinnamon but flat, acrid
as if the promise of sweetness
was suddenly broken
and I’m left gagging, shocked
that the flavor’s all wrong
lost again, groping
at edges, indistinct
blurred together in a whirl of motion
all confusion and reflection and nonsense

it looks like the sky
shining up from wet pavement
obscuring where the ground
begins and ends
it’s all middle
I long for a marker
but the path is lost in monochromes

it sounds like the sharp drum
of a woodpecker
against the Ash tree
that died five years ago
the one that’s green and alive
in all the old photos
but now stands leafless in August
as Trumpet vine climbs
the skeletal canopy
the epitome of opportunistic need

I was unaware
that the pull of galaxies
could affect me,
possessing an arrogance
that made puppet masters laugh

but the truth can be impossible
my lack of purpose, deafening
I thought I was headed
towards a perfect dream
where the ending
looked exactly as planned
a happy fantasy, until
the planets moved from east to west
and it all fell apart

Mercury slid backwards
pulling the illusion
from the skin of my consciousness
and reality flickered
just at the periphery
prompting a deep foreboding
of myself, trapped beneath
a shadow far too large to see

I remember the weightlessness
of the dream, the shift of perspective
how the air, charged with light,
shone between layers of reality
illuminating the darkness
of my skull

That almost-reality
existed in a shuttered corner
of my processing brain
running subroutines
in the basement
of my consciousness

in sleep, it was right in front of me
so much more than a mirage
but the images, false, illusory
disintegrated like spun sugar
in the dull light of morning

I wanted to own time
as if I had some inherent right to it
to youth and hope and excess
because eternity feels real
when you’re young

I thought I was different
somehow impervious
to the inevitability of living,
of life

It was pure arrogance
or stupidity
I was naive

Now, the days are inappropriate
each one an affront
that I should keep living
this aging, useless body
dreams, unrealized
potential turned
to smoke and shadow

I was too focused on the trail
and, studying the path,
nearly walked past
the eagle perched on a low branch
(as much a sentinel as any soldier)
not ten feet away, watching me

I wonder how much I’ve missed
by forgetting to look up
but when I look for birds 
I look with my ears
I listen for their call 
and I watch for shadows
(raptors cast big ones )
I’m always looking down

sometimes, when the air is still 
and I’m sitting on a bench 
watching the river 
the ospreys emerge
flying out from stick nests
to fish for their breakfast

birds are opportunistic 
even when we’ve stolen all the trees
they find a way to nest
and fly and feed 
sometimes our encroachment helps
like the Carolina wrens
that built a home
inside my dilapidated shed 
(we took the doors off
so we could get the bikes out)

there’s an entire world up there
where the crows perch 
and the chimney swifts chitter 
unable to perch
circling in endless loops
airborne, forever
 
I’m not saying I’m jealous
birds have a hard life, a short life
but flying must make up
for all that hardship, 
right?