How sad the moon must becenturies of poets explainto hang so dimly in the skyvague beacon in the raincircle behind passing cloudsgazing down from her

Eucalyptus bendingsouthward, angledby sundowner winds, you pointover the top of lastDecember’s spot fire, saying,I just knewthis would happen. Photo by Ghiffari Haris on Unsplash

Ah, la lune est brisée, said the childto the half moon. She stared, pointing her fingerat the night sky. Her sudden true and wildthought broke

More lonely than I really want to beI find your name written on the back ofmy hand where I used to write the names ofboys

“God is love, but get it in writing.”– Gypsy Rose Lee Between the two long rows of large chairs, you might see Godin the therapy

            after Genesis 3:7 who bounced me on his knee and hummedthe William Tell Overture to make me a horse,who amazed me with the garage

Behold, your King is coming to you;He is just and having salvation, lowlyand riding on a donkey, a colt, the foalof a donkey—Zechariah 9:9 Little

In the desert,the tiny, golden moleswims across sand dunes,paddling hard with broad claws.He zips across the barren terrain,like a tumbleweed,diving deep now and thento cool

The hidden life in melistens for the voices of the trees.They are singing, somewhere deep beneaththe silver skin of old beech treessounding roots that holdthe