My son lies a monochrome of the moon - the moon that throws the window on the floor marking a pale path of stepping-stones. I walk through her window to his bedside. She has crawled into even the small curl of his hands, coating him, as mercury does gold, with her light. And though we spin under her light; a small blue gall smudged with continents, wearing a ragged shawl of cloud, the moon is printed with our fate - apron stringed to us now by more than the fishhook drag of tides. She slips over the small corner of my clay. Her cool alloy clings to his cheek as I walk through her window leaving no mark on this side of space. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN EARLIEST SPRING by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET by SAMUEL WOODWORTH ON A FOUNTAIN AND ITS ARCHITECT by PHILIP AYRES IDYLL 2. EROS AND THE FOWLER by BION ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO HOPPNER by GEORGE GORDON BYRON QUERIES TO CAUISTS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON HERE IS THE PLACE WHERE LOVELINESS KEEPS HOUSE by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN |