My Words Might Fail

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I will reach out to touch it. I might hope for an embrace that it cannot reciprocate. I might stumble in its light. I might weep. I might struggle to move that insurmountable rock. I might try to replace it with other rock. I might lean against craggy walls, learning what every cliff face looks like from the bottom. I might hurt.

One day, when the sun is in the sky, I will tap my fingers on the dining table. The wood might maintain my prints. It might not. I might stare longingly out the window. My gaze might race to meet the horizon faster than my legs could ever run. I might lie down on the floor. I might rest. I might face my greatest fears. I’m not sure I yet know what those are.

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I might not be there to see it.


featured photo by Dids via Pexels

Light

I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

I thought I wanted
to be the sun,
the source of light,
the source of life,
the thing that beckons in the day
and cannot stand the darkness
so much that it has to leave
when the blackness of night encroaches.

But when I tried to fill
the space with light,
I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

Then, I wanted to be a star,
to twinkle and illuminate
in an otherwise dark sky,
to provide just enough light
to prevent fear,
to prevent stumbling,
to be the thing that wayward travelers
use to guide themselves to safety.

But when I tried to shine
a pinprick of light,
I was easily outshone
by the fellow stars around me.

Then, I wanted to be the moon,
the shiny globe that wanes and waxes,
that has the chance to disappear
but always just waits
and always returns,
to be the reflector of light
and illuminate the night sky
in my own right.

But I wasn’t sure how to reflect the light.
I’m still not sure how to reflect the light.
I hope that one day
I can find a way
to reflect the light.




Photo by Dương Nhân

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Just a Walk

through a field

Oh, how the grasses dance,
tickling the legs of those
who pass by on the trail
that scars its way through
the middle of the field.

Oh, how the swallows swoop,
plummeting from up high
and flapping their wings to rise again
into the azure sky
decorated with cottony clouds.

Oh, how the insects hum,
filling the air with their sounds
that hang, just as thick as the humidity,
and allow all to know of their presence
right there, right here, right now.

Photo by Artur Roman from Pexels