For a moment I have this horrible sensation, that I imagined the whole thing. Not just my perception of it, but that each time I was actually alone. Then I find this photo. It’s that night, at the farm. Letting the dogs out before bed, the last smoke. We lived that.
No matter what else, I’ve been blessed.
Sorrow of the Moon
More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests
Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing,
With light and absent-minded touch caressing,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.
On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches
She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,
And lets her eyes on snowy visions range
That in the azure rise like flowering branches.
When sometimes to this earth her languor calm
Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,
The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,
Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun
With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it
Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.
Image: Full Moon Over Wiltshire, Todd Atteberry, artist