Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl.
I’m in the yard again, waiting
for the air to crawl out from under the ferns
where it has been hiding
where it has been hiding
all day, cheek to mud.
This communion with stillness,
This communion with stillness,
a simple arrangement
for the willing—
for the willing—
Want nothing, and the dark
will lessen the distance
will lessen the distance
between your body and its own
as a rabbit sometimes will
as a rabbit sometimes will
when hungry or untroubled enough
to come very close,
to come very close,
herald from some quieter place
breathing beside us.
breathing beside us.
Read on . . .
“Cooking Pasta for My Parents,” a poem by Lee Colin Thomas