The Waxing Moon: Gifts and Treasures

This place is a story

The Waxing Moon was a thin book, well-worn and poorly bound, spine inexpertly repaired with tape. After school, sheltered by the stacks of the public library, the children secretly read spells from the book, never daring to borrow it. It was full of mysteries: spells that disappeared warts with knotted red string and dripping eaves; how to become invisible by placing amethyst under the tongue; stranger things involving cat bones. One day, the book was gone, and I always wondered which one of us had taken it. I'm pretty sure it wasn't me.

Coyote Grief

Sometimes the night stills,
hardens, and the tight stars choke
and fall to flat earth,
dead embers. The sky
is no longer black, dim gray.

Coyote's sadness
is deeper than hope.

She snuffs at dead stars amazed,
confused, wants to put
them back, cannot reach
that high, to the dim flat sky.
They won't burn again.

This beautiful, sad poem was written by Christopher in response to my poem Without memorial. It was too lovely to remain buried in the comments, so I put it here on my windowsill, where the sunlight may fall across the words to heal Coyote's grief.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Gifts and Treasures

This place is a story

Welcome

Take my hand, and we'll find our way home on this star-lit night

Coyote Grief

Irresistible Poetry Blogs

Haunts

Canadiana

Friends and guests

visits since April 2008

Paths

What lies behind us

The Waxing Moon