Moonstruck

I never understood
those whose hearts
were so tightly closed
that not one beam of moonlight
would ever find its way inside.

Tonight, on the full moon closest to Easter,
I am struck silent by her beauty
and how she moves these tides
within my salty blood—
daring me to cast out to sea, find the depths
with my hands, and dive
under the waves with no fear of loss.

I am touched in the old ways of madness
that would have me dancing
under this blue-white light
with the seeds of peas in one hand
and the ripe eyes of potatoes in the other—
unconscious of the need to plant
this early longing in the ground—
penetrated with magic
that disappears on the horizon at dawn—
exchanging absolute love
for the security of blindness
brought on by too much.

Abundance is the guard at the gate
where I would escape if only I had the courage
to say the words
goodbye.

In this place of violet desperation
I call your name into the shadows of the woods
near my dooryard and disappear,
as if a shooting star,
alone and into the darkness
of my own small bed
warm near the fire—
cinders swept away
like whispers not meant to be heard,
but instead, felt in the wet fingertips
on the smoothest skin
of a woman’s body.

I scoop you up—
You, just like star dust,
and go quietly
toward the row of seedlings
to bless them
with all that love
the sky can’t help
but rain down on everything
alive with tears
infused with promise.