Though I woke up in darkness

the sun has risen,

and yet the moon lingers

on in the sky.

Whiteness still lines

the ground over leaves

not blown or swept away–

the remnants of notes

falling coldly

as I buried myself under

covers against the cold

while the night’s symphony played.

 

I did not know

what I had woken up to

and looked

standing by the window

saw the moon still there

even at 8a.m.

Today is 50 years

since the parcel

left the sender’s hands

and met the receiver’s brain

changing history,

changing history forever.

And, we the family blood stained

in Channel dresses

move through crowds

and down corridors

of time

with doors opening

to still more of the same.

What are these myths

telling us?

What has gone unclaimed;

what has been left

by the wayside

like old flowers

brought to a funeral?

(not my image/public domain)