The fat summer moon
drifts atop the trees,
pale-tipped and reverent.
They are right
to glimmer
in amazement.

Where the woods stand
silent. Where in awe.
Where hallowed.

I wonder if the night orb
light is like prayer.
All this sanctified
moon-sky intervening,
joining the gods with earth.

Not that I understand prayer.
Though once I tried. At eight.
At St. Margaret’s.
At First Holy Communion.

The trailing clouds of myrrh,
swung censer clanging.
The slosh of holy water.
The cool, veined
marble floors.

From the confessional,
we were blessed. Were led
from sin. Were lambs.

Though, I cannot recall
the echoed prayers,
whispered absolution falling
from the lips of statued saints,
humble in their niches,
gold star fields
circling their heads,
the mystery remains.
Is it enough
that one May
a child adored the Virgin,
her blue gown flowing?
The gentle folds.
The gentle hands
beckoning. Lay flowers
at her feet.

Is it enough
that tonight the pale-lit sky,
the gilded trees
summon me? To return
in admiration. To implore
in words profane
and earthly. To feel
the tilting planet and seek
the circling stars.