“I, the moon.” …is this a poem?


And then sometimes, once all the pieces have fallen where they may,

I am left with a deep set and desperate desire to come home,

To that green, green grass. To that place where mountains touch the sky,

And legs disappear amidst a sea of iridescent wildflower,

Toes in the brown earth, mud by the riverside. All at once different and yet,

Nothing is old here, but everything is ancient. This air so clear, this grass so green,

So green that you’ve never seen green before. The sun-less sky laid out like a blue blanket,

Twinkling in the firmament. Hardly existing, bleeding through the cracks into starlight,

As night and day, day and night are one. The romance met. The moon has at last found her bridegroom in the Sun.

Time, ceases to exist. And I pick these wildflowers, counting their petals in perfect equals the story of my life,

“….he loves me not. He loves me. he loves me not. He loves me. he loves me not. He loves me.”

He loves me. And I am home. In this land of fierce wilderness, the majesty of creation,

Rainfall, wind-spell, paint the story of my Eden. I’m going back to the start,

Where I am found. Home, and heart.
“I, the moon.” written for you, with love from this side of darkness, J R Manawa xxx

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