The moon hangs low
In the southern sky
Night so humid that
It’s hard to breathe
Bare feet in grass as
We move into the-
Deepest woods
Spines twisting;
Bones breaking;
Hearts stopping;
As things rearrange
Inside of us; This is
Who we are meant
To be; always have
Howling, wild children
Untamed and free
Belonging to the forest
Belonging to the moon
And the hottest nights
Of midsummer
Years ago, my family trekked north
from upstate New York, made our way
to the outer reaches of Quebec
to where the Restigouche River
divided the English from the French.
There we stayed with cousins, Scots
stranded on the French side in a town
that bore my grandmother’s maiden name–
Sillarsville. Even then, no living Sillars
remained. Later, the town was abandoned.
Today, the skies over Cincinnati
are hazed with a high pale gray
that dims but does not block the sun.
The family farm in Sillarsville is burning,
the smoke has traveled here.
Orange sherbet sky
So sweet I can taste it on my tongue
As I watch the first star rise.
The wish I wish,
Tonight, tonight, tonight
Drum solo heartbeat keeps step through time with you.
Stardust melody and silver linked around my fingers and neck.
Your tune is my breath
You’re always hiding behind perfection,
an emotion possessing your whole being
you fixate, cling, hang on tightly to a string, but the world is always changing and you can’t appraise for everything
don’t you know life’s too short to waste time waiting;
for Tulips that only bloom briefly in the spring?
