Birds of Ohio that hover at night
tear the moon apart with haunted claws.
Strips of white light from cratered surface
hang over bare, winter-tree limbs
like strips of ermine. By looking
into the sky, I seek the infinite signal
that things on earth will soon become
more beautiful, that people’s lives will
weep less and settle into satisfying peace.
This is a moment of prayer I believe in,
because hope has emerged visible
in the moonlight. A distant siren warns
of a trouble spot where minds battle
one another, refuse to accept simple truth,
complacency, and calm that a wildflower
offers, the law and order of nearby fields,
nature’s solution to the soulless chaos
of everyday strife. Nothing is perfect
but light. The moon burns to gouge out
ugly shadows of lost cats in dungeness alleys
and hidden fingertips that are reluctant
to reach out and touch someone else’s hand.
There is a hunger for belief the moon gives me.
I grasp its magic with both hands, and its
illumination spills over my grateful caress.
