Language of Moon

There exist pieces of

remnant, lost twilight

forgettable echelons

of ancient stars

where voices unfurled

inside silvery wolves

mysteries left hidden

never ours to find.

We reached out, not

out of basic need,

but more from wanton greed;

dreamt what we knew

we could never hold onto;

still never to grasp

the language of moon.

How can you pride

on this dance living forever

flowers suspended in

uninterrupted bloom

poems written by themselves

across parchments of heart;

songs sung without passion’s lips,

or chords bleeding without

Violins casting tenor croon

still never to hear

the language of moon.

Do you crash yourself

against a garden of stones

spill sedimentary sadness

silt-deep with granular tones

listen to erosion turning

beyond mortal bones

return to dust at death’s marble door

still never breaking through

the language of moon.

Man is jealous of this world

how it evolved long before us

and shall go on, long after we’re gone

even for one moment in utter stillness

it just is; and doesn’t need us,

what our dreams can’t forget

is what it chose not to remember.

Never were we the aching flow

of a river’s wounded current,

nor could we predict the storm

in a prairie wind’s restless eye.

All we ever were was tiny seedlings

caught in throats of ivory seagulls

warped cries fading on salty gulf breezes

seeking distances never meant to reach;

vines growing wild, out of control

from motherless roots;

shells shimmering like pearled-jewels

the ocean gave up and spit back upon

an orphaned beach~

A silent cloud passed by once,

long ago, in a sonnet rain,

in the cry of a loon,

inside buffalo echoes,

tried to explain

to passing deaf shadows

to blind eyes of hearts

that closed all too soon~

and no one, nothing, heard

the language of moon.

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia