Tripping the night-town streets for a late lark,
swapping some breezy rhymes with sky folk,
a merry old moon returns my daft devotion
by tipping off the top of a 100 foot flagpole
and landing in a neat net of curly willows,
proving again that there are no accidents.
Wind-chiming tones charm playful airs,
invoking pale lunar beings who parade
like a troupe of magical circus clowns,
whirling spirit bowls atop their heads,
all generously spilling the white wine
of luscious late harvest moonshine.
If we could see how things really are,
we’d realize that the mere appearance
of anything, anything at all, is a sign
of some truly immense kindness.
Maybe in that flash of recognition
we’d jettison our file of opinions.
Perhaps in that moment
we’d finally go silent.
Still, like a recalcitrant drunk
fallen dipsy off the wagon again,
I suddenly can’t resist my old tricks –
juggling torches of light like a loon,
whistling tunes from the innocent days,
deeper in love than any poet could say,
dancing like a dervish to my own tune:
“I‘m the one that got away, gone tomorrow
Here today, blown along in a lyrical swoon,
For a taste of its light I’d swallow this moon!”