Smoke from a neighbor’s bonfire drifts
into my yard. He’s burning leaves and logs,
has invited me over this evening for a wiener
roast, and though I appreciate the invitation,
I declined. I want to be alone when
I welcome the moon pushing pearlescent light
through branches of an oak tree bordering
my driveway. Meeting with the moon weighs
as much as a formal date. It is an ancient moon,
and at this distance, it is small enough to wrap
my hand around. If only I could carry that
handful into the house, but would I be content
or call for more? The moon never seems
to have a destination, a place to go home to.
It is forever lost, open for adoption, threading
its wayward brilliance through interstices
of my solitude. Sometimes, I’ve been known
to climb the tree to get a better view, and
the tree would laugh at me if it could because
I think the moon is a divine outlaw, an un-jailed
criminal of calm that satisfies, expunges debris
of frustration from my body and leaves me
as clean as its light. I must be by myself
for this ministration, stand on the driveway,
stare upward, ready to bask in the glow that burns
the night away from itself. Later, I will smell
the scent of wood smoke on my clothes,
feel the celestial blaze of the moon
I finally stuff into my pocket.
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University, taught for Columbus City Schools for thirty years. OCTELA, the Ohio Council of Teachers of English, named Nik Macioci the best secondary English teacher in the state of Ohio. Nik is the author of twenty-two books.
