The Book of Weston

On night walks, her head shines

with fluorescent thoughts in warm shadows.

And sometimes she follows

distant human chattering to its source,

peering through trees at lights and people,

but tonight she flees

and floats, a homeless ghost,

down dark sidewalks, past buzzing bulbs,

just islands of light in the churning night.

Some lamps flicker as she passes

and pretends to control them

while wild lightning bleaches orange clouds above,

a passing storm. She stares through windows,

gazing long at living room worlds

she's never known or has forgotten.

So warm, so real, so fate-forbidden.

A gentle mist falls through her, carrying

the bitter scent of burning wood.

And further, she hears nothing but her feet

until she pauses in the peaceful road

for a little eternity:

no cars, relaxed, hopeful,

the world washed clean by the night.

She passes through a kudzu tunnel

teeming with fireflies,

floating neon candles in the black.

Emerging new, she rests in a swing,

bathing in the glorious quiet,

soul adjusting faster than pupils.

She slips into the park,

away from streetlights,

sheltering under a pond gazebo,

contemplating the triple-reflection

of the hidden sun as it filters

through moon, water, eye.

The frogs grow quiet when she approaches

but worship again as the dark embraces her.

Circling the pond, she weaves

between bushy sentinels that guard the water

as an irrational urge rises to her surface.

She resists, almost fleeing.

It feels insane but also right.

So she surrenders, mounting a boulder,

uncovering her auburn hair,

and shedding her rags to meet

the bounteous blue-haloed moon

without barrier.

It bathes her with a healing glow,

filling her, holding her,

and for a moment, its gravity lifts

and her toes slip free from the rough rock

but the greedy earth pulls her back,

and the great mother slips behind

her veil of clouds.

Recharged, she turns, surveying the land.

She renounces her throne,

assuming again her mortal skin,

and drifts out of the park.

A startled bird flaps its wings

across her vision and away,

shocked by her glowing visage.

She will not look at the moon again tonight.