The sun, shy-pink and hunkered low,
Eyes the pitted bone of the moon,
Leans its fading light
Long against my passing shadow
On the yellow grass, bare –
There in the meadow, laid bare
And plain to see. I huddle low,
Curl upon myself;
The circle of the moon
And the circle of my shadow
Expressions of light.
I spread, all arms and legs, body light
As a breath to the earth with her coat
Of land and sea and her bare
Layers of rock and rock beneath. My shadow,
Squashed flat and low
Scuds and slams against the stone of my Self.
Pressing down; pushing my shadow away from my Self
The last light
Of the sun blows out. I watch the moon
Define herself above me and I can’t bear
Her terrible gaze. And below
Writhes my shamed shadow.
Swells, soaks my Self
In its liquid memories, drags me low
And pins me to the ground,
So I will never know what it is to feel light
Move through me; to be sweet and new and bare;
A maiden moon.
Stands in front of her own shadow
Witness to the grime of each of us;
And I know that the dirt I kicked up long ago is sewn to the core of myself,
That these earthly lows
Are the patchwork of my elusive Self.
I delve deep and low; but I’m a Russian doll inside myself
Inside; bottomless as the sky that holds the moon and the shadows
Of the bare stars and the space that light can’t reach.