The crescent moon, a pale and sleepy eye,
Extends its gaze across the blue-black sky
As stars appear like tears upon a face
That knows not why it condescends to cry
When breezes bring, within its breath, a trace
Of growing life from fertile soil’s grace
Where brown-black grains of graded silts and clays
Define the depths of land’s creative space
As locusts hum above and moonlight strays
In filtered silver beads through wooded ways.
At times like these, when all the senses spy
The oneness of the world’s songs and plays,
You feel your smallness shrink below the sky
Although its dreams of you exceed its eye.
I've written a number of poems about the night, maybe because I'm often awake during that time. Sometimes I feel as if the night itself is awake, and is aware of me (not in a scary way - it's more of a comforting feeling). This poem imagines some of the night's different senses, and the mutual awareness between a small individual and something much larger.
No comments:
Post a Comment