Twice this week I have watched the moon rise from my shower window,
A buttery entrance,
Peek,
Looking for her shadow,
Before emerging,
A steady ascent,
Turn a shade
Candle held behind drying bed sheets.
Spindly threads
Of a barren tree on the hill,
Crawl up,
Framed by the
One perfect
Circle
Earth will ever know.
A cobweb of obscurity,
Cracks,
Like in the moon pictures on postcards.
Better, though,
For in person
The ashen thumbprints
Reveal themselves
In a fading flicker,
And make you feel they are
yours.
Ever up.
Slow,
Not like a clock hand is slow,
Where it creeps then
Jolts in a way you can catch
If you do not blink,
But slow
Like life is.
Leisurely,
Still,
Until you look away a moment and realize that something has changed.
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