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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3395 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Moon as Gardener Vienna (Carole Barley) An owl will make itself known to you, harbinger of a shine that pulls back cool curtains when there is only dark and breathing in your room. The moon lolls on her back, knotting waves of December storms, pulling thoughtweeds from heads overgrown with tangled tendrils and seedpods. New green, the faded crackle of taupe, brittle under the winds of change and chance. Hesitant hues of red and lemon lean hopefully towards her bluesilver gaze. Under angular light, fields appear, are tended, tilled; ploughed to bare crests and troughs, sun to shade, sun to shade. Harvests are garnered, seeds scattered randomly. As you lay, stilled between dream and some barely understood algebra, the moon burns distantly, somewhere between a lover’s voice and the unfathomable silence of space. Turn, one shoulder silvered and cold above the covers; wrap an arm across your breast. Whisper to yourself, use anyone’s words, the moon will nurture or prune regardless. |
