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  • Writer's pictureperlgray

falling towards the moon

The air is quiet tonight.

The meadows tremble with twilight breeze,

the grass drenches in anguish dew,

the cicadas croon among the woods.

The last light of the day gleams

and withdraws from the darkening night.


A few faint stars beam

in a small muddy pond by the lane.

The cows going home

stump across the pond, and the stars

gone.


Up on the tail of the country lane,

A full moon looms

her cold nonchalance towers the tall woods.

Listen!

The startled nocturnal creatures hop between bushes, retreating

from the moon’s joyless eye.


O Moon, I cry,

How you are the muse of thousands,

religion of the poets and guidance of the lonely travellers,

Your imitation in the greatest arts of all time.

Yet how ever companionless you are

Born among the foreign stars

Weary-eyed and pallor,

Climbing up and down the earth and sky,

For evermore wandering in woeful sighs!


The Moon hearing my cry

Utters not a word.

But she beams in silence,

her pale emanation girdles me.

Quietly, she raises me from the earth

until I reach her height.

And suddenly,

the Moon quivers in turbulent tears of sorrow,

driving the stars around to fall and the night to shatter.


I’m falling too.

Falling towards the Moon.



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