Last Night

Streams of light drench the street, the trees, the vacant facades. The moon is a fat egg, approaching roundness. I place the hose to send an arcing stream of water into the bed of sourgrass, and I watch the two streams mingle. Everywhere it falls but on the water, the moonlight is placid, illuminating a static world. On the gurgling stream it plays and flashes, reveals transient facets, mirrors its source in motile distortions. It is the fluid sun I see, twice removed, spilling into the dark soil, vanishing into roots.

( Sunday Verse )

Dry

This summer is determined to drain me of every ounce of energy. Another surge of heat has arrived, and I think that my late summer allergies are kicking in. The spring allergies make me sneeze, and the late summer allergies make me cough. They also make my head fell as though it were filled with sand. A few more days such as this and I'll be a desiccated husk.

But the moon is full tonight, and its pleasing roundness is now rising above the eastern woods. I will go out to watch it, and hope that the wind returns to carry away whatever bits in the air are messing with my membranes. I might turn the hose on myself, too.