Night is opened by a moon as round as life,
and all our words, like wind, roar then die
down. November breezes shake moon rings
onto rooftops, they bounce off our half-buried
intentions and toll the time to our hearts.
Time to go under autumn’s leaf quilt,
then under grass to an underground stream,
then under the stream into what has fallen
from on high with more irony than Icarus.
Regret barks at the nonchalant moon and
uses bare branches to scratch loss and
longing onto the equinox. Years glow as
finches’ wings would if they flew at night.
Seasons passed quiver in your chest as you
turn the clocks. Smoky clouds carry promise
of morning; you dream Beauty is a guest in
your mouth, voicing with the far-away. At first
light, fully rested, you hurry to the park, kicking
through leaves ankle-deep, the rustling sounds
like a far-off surf. You walk into the turning,
into the orange-gold paths made by sunlight
and mist with a spring in your step because
you can sense better things waking nearby,
taste that they are ready to come around.
Valerie M. Griggs, poet, educator and songwriter, lives in Long Island, NY and is part of a vibrant poetry community. Slouching towards retirement, Ms. Griggs draws inspiration from history, nature, music, art, cities, fishing, dreams, and outer space.
