Monday, September 8, 2014

Maybe On The Last Full Moon

I drive in the dark of morning.  The tick-tock dark.  When that's all you hear, the automatic noises that fill in the spaces that open up each twilight as the light leaves.  Clocks and crickets.  Crinkling leaves and heavy breaths.  The sounds that enter the sleeping's dreams and transform into up-side-down tap dancers and floating violinists.  Night whispers that become bejeweled sky-divers and naked dragons.  These sounds are what make up my morning trek.  These sounds, coupled with the thick coat of midnight, change me in the mornings.  My mornings become a waking dream, a time when I believe anything could become true.  A time when I ask questions and am given answers in the form of a frozen deer or a rare shooting star.  Symbols I hold on to, but will never fathom.  In the dark, when I am alone, I believe that everything I see is just for me.  The giant shadows of trees, sentries that were planted long before I was born only to shield my path at that moment.  The other cars on the road, phantoms whose headlights are sent to bewilder me.  I wonder at their drivers and if they are in their own dreams or merely a piece of mine.  Perhaps I am in theirs.  The curving road, first gravel, then paved, then highway.  Slow, fast, faster, slow.  My guide in the night.  I follow it unconsciously, I remember the destination, I forget the beginning by the end.  What happened in between?  A song, a face?  Many times tears.  My favorite mornings are those when the moon travels with me.  I watch her, I search for the faces I have thrown up to her.  Those who have left me, I keep with her.   She is like a precious locket to me, and when I am alone I open her up to see the pictures of those I love.  Primarily yours, Frost.  You are always first on those mornings that the moon follows me, leads me, takes me away, took you away. 
During my dark mornings, I wonder at what I will never need to have an answer to.  I spend time on questions that are too late.  I ask out loud to skies that do not speak, hoping to be given a clue to a mystery that was never mine.  I do all of these things because I will always hope that if you were to answer me, it would be then, during the tick-tock dark of morning.

Night, night Frost
Mama loves you

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