Winter Moon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A Spiritual vist to the grave of my father and the grave of another writer.

Submitted: December 13, 2008

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Submitted: December 13, 2008

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Winter Moon

Last night, bright thru closed blinds and curtains,

Forcing my eyelids open at 2 a.m.

A persistent and robust winter moon,

Not the moon of summer nights,

That leads one amorous into scented fields,

No, this one is of frost and naked black woods

And I fight against it, wanting to rise,

Look out and see, go out, see my breath white,

And I roll over in the sleep that is not sleep,

And silently rise up and move outward,

The house now below me as I sail free in the frost night,

Sleeping not sleep but the spirit rising,

Dark woods and streams and towns speeding beneath,

Moving with inevitable purpose to the place of my boyhood,

And there is the big river, and the town,

And this is Parriot Avenue, there is Uncle Ed’s house

And I suddenly see him, birds feeding from his hand,

Oh, Uncle Ed, Uncle Ed, how is Ada, how is Walter?

Oh, I have almost forgotten, but they’re all waiting, aren’t they?

Waiting for me to come back home.

And on up the street, there it is, the little house, the little old house.

And I walk up to it, touch just a fingertip to the door,

And in white magic fire I am suddenly in there,

A boy again, setting on the old couch before the fireplace,

Mom is reading to me out of the little blue book

And it makes no difference that the house is really cold,

And that all we have to eat is potatoes.

Then I think of my Dad up there on the hill,

On the hill above the old Glass Factory,

Up the old cinder road, up, up, the mountain,

I’m coming Dad, tall unknown one of photographs,

Of an old hammer and saw,

The storied one who cared for the poor in this town,

Not one thing to remember, I was too little, they said.

And there it is, the enigmatic grave, as always, his grave,

And there Dah’s grave, and Grandma’s

Will I meet them somewhen?

The winter moon shines down in fluorescent vigor upon us all,

And I remember the next plot above is Davis’s grave.

I walk up and look down, Ah, Davis, Davis, I have read your singing much,

But you have never read my singing, but I sing of glory too,

And what it is that hath caused you be buried next to my Dad,

That I might stand upon a frost-moon hill and ponder?

Why did we both grow up here in the bad days and never knew one another?


© Copyright 2017 r t ashley. All rights reserved.

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