dim

There's  something about those days called drab -
drab to some -
"dim" - I prefer
and  relish them

vague, and unassuming
and opaque
shielding the noise and sharpness
of the universe

so they don't comment on every flower
and butterfly
and they don't tell stories in the clouds
and the dingy whiteness can tire

but still, I can breathe
and take cover from those days
too splendid and eager -
and go about things.

Almost the Moon

It turned out not to be the moon
against the backdrop of the little humble dinner
and of course I knew this

What moon had I seen of such stature
looming crisp and perfect and poised
against a hungry sky

but being in no hurry to know
I lightened each time I swerved
down that road - towards my maybe moon

full of promise and awe
clean and luminous and brilliant
like the cathedral window it was

it's not always the right time for truth
and never during the gift of a perfect moon
celestial or otherwise

and lest it be thought I was deprived of that moon -
perhaps -
but it was almost the moon
and I gasped just the same.