September moon song
The mist blows across the moon
And makes the low sound of time
That you hear in your bones and eye-sockets,
That old houses hear. The floor boards
Remember when they were part of something bigger
But when they sing to the moon it sounds
Flat, like uncertain foot-falls in a dark hallway.
The screech owl in the backyard
Is like someone who laughs before they have told
The joke and then had no reason to tell it.
And the two voices talking about a dream
One had, up at maple leaf level; they fade
And drift, like a moon across a window pane,
Or the impression on the grass of a possum’s pink feet.