Writing Home

I am walking on the moon again. Funny, how I always end up here, writing on the stars, all white and shiny and falling like snowflakes with my poems on them. Falling into the hands of children or burning up in the atmosphere like prayers – candles lit and consumed in remembrance of our dancing lives before, the ghosts we carry with us in our hearts and words from here to the moon to the falling stars of shimmerlight, expanding in the vacuum where yesterdays return, like space in their blackness, in their depth and cold, with nothing but planets to sit on and wonder and wonder why.

I am done with this poem this story this song. I am ready to be written on a star, ready to fall from heaven, from the moon to the earth, to lift up my arms and hold out small hands to catch the stars of other dreamers, to receive dizzy poems, stories, songs tripping down into my pockets, into my bones growing taller, my fingers growing longer, aching for the green imaginings of a thousand midnight wishes and tumbling purple stars, reaching up, giddy, back toward the sky.


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