The full yet shrouded moon
struggles to share its light
with the not quite wakened world.
Cold, wet diamonds dance
on blades of glass,
made of the same stuff
as those that are placed
into the settings of rings.
The rings speak of promises to
paths to this morning dew
and that moon,
and the house that waits
is old and creaky
and still so sleeping
that I have to be quiet on the stairs.
But you know me,
just a boy in the man
when it comes to stairs,
and my quiet sounds to you a bound
laid on top of the sound
of a dream-filled world removed from cares.
and all I can say is that I’m
going to try to do my best.
I promise.
***
As much as I hate to say it, I write most of these for me. This one is for my wife…but it’s really for me.
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