In the dark of the moon
I seek solace and quiet
and peace of mind.
In the dark of the moon
it is sound, not light, that pierces the night;
the rustle of dry, dead leaves crunch and scuffle underfoot;
the swirl and whistle of branches shorn,
twisting and creaking in night’s breezes;
the hoot and scree of owl and
nighthawk seeking dinner,
quiet broken by a car horn blare of a mockingbird.
In the dark of the moon
I seek privacy,
no one knowing the wrack of my tears,
no one seeing the anguish of my face,
no one recognizing the pain of my loss,
which even I don’t comprehend.
In the dark of the moon, even I
don’t realize the paths of my own footsteps
as they carry me to uncharted destinations;
when loss so profound
makes me wonder at my lack of preparation.
Didn’t I ever think about you not present.
Didn’t I ever practice dining alone.
Didn’t I ever sit quiet at a table
preparing for this silent table and empty chair.
Didn’t I ever wander without companion footsteps
down paths that used to carry two.
Didn’t I ever laugh, expecting companion laughter
in a room where I stood alone.
I am unprepared for the void
your absence has created, and
in the dark of the moon, I have found
a place I can practice.