This a lunar phase, then,
finding the sun too direct
in its dealings. A dream—
half-real, the cool hallway
of a summer house, dim
and still, with windows
opened to night air.
Given enough time,
a fear of the dark
is roundly displaced,
the moon slakes
some thirst that can’t
be named, but comes
awfully close to respite—
Don’t we all have our tides?
And the summer stars,
they seem to swing lower,
so tempting to pluck one,
two, my heart concave,
my heart a bowl, a place
for things to collect, to settle—
And isn’t it then natural
to long for something
so full and sound and whole?
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Oh, wow. Gorgeous piece. “…my heart concave, my heart a bowl” – brilliant!
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Thank you! That was a pretty satisfying line to stumble in to
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there needs to be a love button, liking this poem doesn’t go far enough to describe how i feel about it. thank you for sharing such fine sentiments.
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Thank you, Shellie!
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