I let go of the moon while standing
on a bridge, dangled it over the side
and released my tight knuckle grip,
watched it drop silently through the air
falling, fallen, fell into the river,
the great river, and made a sploosh.
Then it was gone, out of sight, imaginably
Then it was gone, out of sight, imaginably
sinking slowly, absorbing moisture
like a sponge into it’s craters, and I, leaning
over wooden rail watching, grew
very sad, sorrowful, teary, realizing
what I had done, feeling loss settle in
like a thick cloud over a mountain forest,
remembering when the moon was
just a simple orb in my pocket, caressed
between the softens of my index finger
and my thumb.
I closed my eyes and opened them
and the river illuminated in moonlight,
you know, that silvery magical color
of moonlight, because the moon had reached
the bottom, ignited, and was rolling smoothly
down the track of river bed like a marble,
headed south for the Winter.
