The sun, shy-pink and hunkered low,

Eyes the pitted bone of the moon,

Leans its fading light

Long against my passing shadow

Projects myself

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.


My 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.


The 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.



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