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A bright milk glass
moon hangs above-- a disk that sat on a sideboard in her warm home. Luminous, opaque, a dimpled white she would fill and leave candy out. It is hidden away, eclipsed now, safe 'til the time comes to unwrap that lunic dish. Shrouded like the moon, like my Busia-- until time ends and Earth passes and she shines again.
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The road is ground glass--
the rain is sea salt. Life is hard, yet over too soon. On hands and knees each day a bit farther battered and cut to remind us how far. Let us not dwell then on the distance we've traveled. Let us not dwell on the place we once were. The road is ground glass-- our tears are sea salt. They sting torn hands and purify souls. |
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