The full moon is just a phase.
Still, is there anything more beautiful
than the moon glimpsed through streaming clouds
like a shiny metal fishing lure on a river bottom,
out of reach, reflecting bright sunlight,
Or lonelier, when it’s just the crunch of boots
on old snow that has thawed and refrozen,
and you and the dogs, and nobody’s talking?
This is my lamentation
for your lamentation
for words which long
for words which long.
We dwell in darkness like those long dead.
In dreams, I lie still under heavy swirls of riverweight.
I feel cool, metallic, slippery, and the roar of the current
is nearly enough to drown the silence of absent words.
He has made me dwell in darkness
like those long dead – Lamentations 3:6