Always, A New Moon Rising

photo by Jon Merk

I am well water, salted with tears.

I am the chill in a September morn,

through an open door.

I am Memory

of other chilly autumn mornings,

come full circle,

as the many seasons pass.

I am evening closing in early.

I am bathing in

the reflection of the moon,

rising silver and serene 

in the evening sky.

I am a new blade of grass 

pushing up through the earth,

and I am the bent and brittle 

straw-like, yellow stalk

at the end of life's road.

I am river-breath and ocean-fog

and an old weary, wondering spirit, 

rising.

Looking through my eyes

is the one who is 

doing the looking,

the one who watches, still and quiet,

as I cavort about like a bumbling fool.

She knows. I know that She knows:

fire and rain, joy and pain,

and always a new moon, 

rising.

A poem from 2014, to be shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads .