I am very tired tonight. Maybe the past few months without sleep have finally added up to the perfect toll, or perhaps the impending weight of the future is finally becoming tangible. Dreams and nightmares are both illusory visions of one reality whose substance is made of their intersection.
the moon marches through february's final night
coursing through shadows of fall,
a winter who was hardly here at all,
spits us into our next season
like the dirt road spits you into the ditch
countless branches does the moon cross
as the sap begins it's flow
and the frost become dew
it's a year of fortune's tossed
through the sea and the storm
the ladybugs are wandering
the bluejays are mocking
coyotes make their den
and it is the last gibbous moon
i shall see from my dearest home yet
whose dreams i wish i had been able to see
for myself
for the terror
the tribulation
and the good times
the moon's march is on
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