The moon in the trees
was like crinkled cellophane,
filtering the light in a camera lens,
watching the young musician
as he took the artist’s hand,
in a spotlight under moonlit sky,
as they leaned against his beaten subcompact
in a parking lot behind a church,
watching the cars pass on the interstate,
with the windows cracked behind them
to hear the stereo.
She wore her heart on a chain,
like a millstone around her neck,
and a light rain began to fall
from cloudless skies,
as she looked at him and said,
Holding your hand is letting go of this weight,
and placed the necklace in his palm.
In the drizzling rain,
beside a fallen sycamore,
they swayed in time to the music:
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…
Since then her words have been a cymbal,
ringing in reverse,
a crescendo with every stroke,
constantly building into something more,
rolling off her tongue like pennies down a slide
in a park where children play in the sun
with no mind for the shape of the stars,
or what tomorrow leaves on their doorstep.
(3/15/2008)
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