To the Risen Moon

(March 2007)

“All night my hands weep in gratitude
for little things. That feet are not shoes.
That blackbirds are eating the raspberries. That parsley
does not taste like bread. //
From now on I want to live
Only by grace. In other words, not to deserve things.”
-Blackbirds, Susan Mitchell

We stare at the noisy sky to remind us
that we are small and to feel connected.
We float in heavy silence,
even as we eavesdrop on the lake
lapping at the dock posts.

I like it when you interrupt.
As if you were Navajo,
you tell me with your hands
how the stars spilled
from their ripped satchel,
like paint splattering on the widest canvas.

We watch the dotted sky
until our toes turn numb and
we peel our backs from the hard planks.
Stunned, we inhale honeyed moons
dripping from black sky into black water.

Instead of leaving, we resettle.
We are glued to the oily globes
as they begin to rust
like the twin banks at dusk, suddenly resplendent
against the monotone landscape.

Our eyes rest there
until two egrets skate over the lake,
their bodies like darts
propelled by steady, flapping wings.
My right side knows your left
and your skin breathes into mine.

We are no longer miniature but expansive,
as if we could grasp the large fruit
that hangs above its syrupy reflection.
I decided from now on, I want to live
only by grace. In other words,
not to deserve things.

As our chilled feet retrace the shoreline,
My hands weep in gratitude for little things.
That docks are neither land nor water;
That the Navajo survive in words if not flesh;
That paint captures what and when language fails.
That the red-oiled fruit
hangs briefly in silhouetted trees.
That the cold in my fingers
evaporates with the company of your hand.

All night, I dreamed grace
and cradled without deserving.
My hands cupped the glistening harvest moon
until its flowing juices glazed my fingers
and the egrets landed to drink of the lake in my palm.