HALF-BAKED MOON
Under blue sky morning with a
half-baked moon waning, whenever
it is dark we light lights and call it
living on. Starting, it is, how the light
breaks such angles onto the trunks
of those huge trees nearby. I am in
Woodrow Wilson's garden, sitting
at a metal bench and table - heavy,
wrought, and black, these things -
looking out over immense and glorious
grounds. Mrs. Wilson had all this
planted one hundred years ago.
Two hundred and fifty years ago,
by the same chance, this was just
a farm. I cannot distinguish.
-
Whenever it is dark, we light a
light and call it living on. (I am
not inhabiting a space; I am
inhabiting here a Life, under
this half-baked moon and sky).
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