Variations on the Country Moon 

By Hank Edson

1.

By the path I enter beneath the star filled sky ~
spread broad and deep with stillness and raised with activity;
like so many colors in a black field singing,
these seeds shaken on the wind, set weightless and free.
And I am here, a small earth person gazing,
facing the above, as if all were flat, or earthbound and shy,
the sky, a plane like the horizon, like the hills or even I,
my tiny being considering in the night air a point where
scale is transformed by dimension, like this ocean seething
silently upon my rocklike soul, like my limbs laid bare
to the wonder of welcome and I am entranced in breathing
and music and growth and these hills blown wide
for the generous night is as cool as angels' halos, golden elation,
invisible ambrosia to quenchen a dryness inside.
From a silent heart in reverence, glee gestures a muted cry
and I give thanks with new joy that life is creation.

2.

To my left a hill rises slightly, a graceful curve and
on top, an oak tree sleeps with branches bare, spread to the rose light
of the town behind.  Above the sky softs and purples
and the golden moon leans into the darkness, a body
held, one thinks, with a peace instinct has found glowing
in passion's core, a silent benediction, telling of the impossible:
the rocks, the craters, the shadows and seas; organic
being endowed with a soul, uniquely rewarded
as everything else to share in that embrace.  I can hear her soft voice.
She is calling me to being.  Her radiance tonight may also be mine.

3.

The tree on the hill in black silhouette with branches cut
by time's fine hand, its life producing a sense of art,
is holding more than itself, like the smallest
            of wounds, ignored, but flowing,
a notion turning a reach to a touch, a black tree with crystal mist blood
            draining in the night distance, peaceful
asleep, against the innocent blush, only a tree
sharing with the moon the knowledge of the night air!
My steps tend toward their conversation as though trying to hear
the long forgotten words of a beautiful song, the persistence of love
            separated by a heaven;
they are romantics in soliloquy,
each with an expression of the deepness of the sky.
And suddenly, in my youth I feel old, older than I thought was ever
in the nature of inspiration,
                        but halo'd she shines,
and I am soothed by her balm, silver and golden.
                        The primal light held above
in the darkness is beautiful and I reach toward it,
speaking myself a desire, mysterious as the midnight tide of moths
and I am young in an old, old moment and my soul stretches beyond me,
sharing in sympathies far earlier than reason.
Yes, I am old and I am gazing, a small earth person,
bathed in the glow of the moon at night.

Copyright © Hank Edson