The moon is yellow and full and low in the sky
and the sky no longer drops now, it’s a slow fade to dusk.

I walk the lake road
and a car comes round the bend
and with the swoosh of the taillight in this frozen frame
it’s a paradise right here,
but I can only think of leaving.

And I walk to the park, to the baseball field
to admire the moon
and there’s a beam-me-up quality to it
just standing there alone,
it’s a soft mirror that won’t talk back,
it just grins and makes you think
it’s listening:

I am the only poet in the park on the bench writing after dark

I take the trail into the woods,
I crave the fearlessness of youth and know
I am as much a spirit as any who would harm me here,
likely more —

And I become larger than myself in the dark,
for I cannot see my feet strike the ground,
but know that they do,
I return to my senses
when forced to use them
and close my eyes to see inside.

Categories: poetry

Tags: creativity, dark, forest, full moon, inspiration, introspection, March, moon, nature, poem, poetry, spirituality, spring, woods, writing