May the moon rise (Boston 1)

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When there’s thoughts to have next to you, so quiet.

When there’s a place- and a bench for sitting at the end of an old lane, that faces the haunted harbor

And don’t you know, that it’s there. 

In a cab in Boston going in the wrong direction in the right…and those big globes of light at night, seeing them dance (though they’re still); its all movement in the nighttime. Every night that you yearn, to see that missing moon up there - the black clouds blacken and nothing is right — but in just the pace of an inhale there it is, WOW. -pause- See the vibes shining in your mind, so coming fast that you swear — didn’t all the streetlamps just get brighter and dimmer? Weren’t there shadows dancing? Wasn’t it…

Makes it all feel so enchanting-uneasy- you fear and you draw…it in inside. 

Back in the even, weekday-ordinary evening — the woods shadowed back over, and turnabout street on which I now live (some inhales later), the trees, got nothing more to say just yet…just sweet quiet. And I smile at their golden branches — cause I know, we know, they’ll change…mend to the blustery cold sharp winds a’coming — branched into something intricately placed. Cause we find places. New ones, wonderful, -stroll against the wind through, as everything is unfamiliar kind of wonderful… and you can’t remember the last broken break, or entire weekend alone in bed for one. Isn’t that a blessing — and a sacrifice of the words halting on the other side. Isn’t that something.

Halt. But what’s the use of it? Let it, let the delicate faint lines form upon the very walls because it feels right. Left. Up and…well…

Let the ‘scape, and the scope —and hell, all of it that this season burns into the air, in oh-such-fragrant air of Baltimore — be inside plenty of blushed smiles. The day fog lifts and it’s a passion like never before. The leaves, the hot candlelit meals, the layers being pulled off - soft cotton sweaters - then the hot steaming showers when you thank the necessities and the stars. The cold and the heat. 

So dream another morning with me, so quiet. 

Dream amongst the thickened sheets of how we feel, rising high and rhythmically entirely holding on…to the sun piercing brilliantly, angles of the room. 

Beauty. Fall back down again and rest your soul, breathe. 

And that’s the closest lullaby, these scripts of prose. 

That’s where I’ll end for tonight — and may you sleep, in thoughts of magic autumn. 

May the moon rise. 

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