Sunday, February 08, 2009


Lantern Festival

Tonight the rare moon persists, calls echoes
from every nook. Winter has stripped
the lace from the pistachio, left it
black and keen against the cloudbank.
I have cared too much about the revolution

of barren planets, the climate of the sun,
the dream of water plumbed from stone.
By daybreak I expect a cure, a dose
of ice and sunlight. It is building

that calls me now. My desk bows
beneath the weight of strategies
and maps. I will swathe the windows
with crepe, ignore the bait of star
and branch. Even the snow will lose

its pretty riddles. My lips are lined
with ten-penny nails. I wait for morning,
for the moon to melt into the west,
a pale votive snuffed by my breath.

1 comment:

Gerry Boyd said...

Wow! This has just perfect cadence and diction. Love what you've done with the line breaks to carry the meaning forward in a sneaky hint at ambiguity seemingly resolved. There is so much quirky and unexpected in this piece. Truly well-crafted in my humble opinion. Bravo!