A Week in February

Moon skittered across an opening sky

I came to bed too late and 

Missed its arc hugging the window 

With the ellipse 

That frames my nighttime and

Morning views, but it’s 

Mostly night I have been missing

As I’ve been coming to bed too late.

The heavens have always helped

Me find balance; 

Not to keep, but to always find

I crave the dark and the deep 

Vast quiet 

All sorts of treasures reside there

I told a nurse today, I 

Had to see a surgeon for absolutely 

No big deal, 

But we got to talking 

And I told her, 

You know what is really good

About the age thing

Is that it is perfectly fine 

Indeed admirable or at least

Sufferable

To be a little crazy. 

The night light floods my sounds

Celtic ballads, an organ plundering

 Into transporting chord,

Bright shadow streaming into song,

Tree frogs, coyotes too 

When they feast

Voices from 

Bangladesh and Gullah

Baying, crying, hosanna

A far tinkle of laughter

Stirrings of blood and past, 

Haunting me and 

Weeping into time as it shortens

My disablements.

I know I’m fighting 

But when I stop, when I want to,

When I see what strums the chords 

Of this small bolt of light I call my life, 

I hope maybe I might move to purpose,

And like the phases of the moon, 

There really is no end and no beginning

Each wax and wane the signal.

February 3 and now February 8