I walk to the end of the field, far from the streetlight just so I can look up into the night sky. Alone, in the hay field, near an ancient campsite, I listen to the singing brook without blinking an eye. The new moon hangs low in the east. Stars are tattoos. Black is endless and beautiful. I imagine you in the moon’s glow. Your eyes, bright as stars, muse me toward words. Windless, the night dews fescue, jonquil, and me.
Stars are tattoos – love that line. Great journey here. Thanks for taking us on it.
I am happy that you chose to go on this journey.
Yes to what Allen said…and the conjunction of the “you…and me”
under the vast globe of night sky.
Night and day, beginnings and endings and wishful feelings, thinking…
Such a dreamy poem.
I especially love “muse/ me toward words.”
Nothing has been said to me as to what a muse can be… Thanks, Gaby…
Enjoyed this poem!
I am happy that you enjoyed the poem, Linda…
Night and day dreaming, perhaps…