The moon’s broken head in our lawn

Though they said it was full there was no sign of the moon behind the clouds. The dog’s muzzle started to go white, we just noticed. We asked one another if they’d seen the same thing or it just happened. It was like the hair on my chest, the same thing: it went white overnight, all at once. There was a rhododendron bush out front worn down by the weight of the rain, the blooms facedown like a drunk in the lawn, the head broken and spilling out. There was no moon. The sky got a sickly pale but never came to fruition. You knew it was back there but there was no point staying up for it. The moments inside were about the same, how we passed in and out of rooms, rising and falling, passing in and out, seen by some, not by others.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in musings, prose and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to The moon’s broken head in our lawn

  1. ksbeth says:

    ebb and flow –

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Akuokuo says:

    Thinking about you Bill! Sending you happy thoughts 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

Please share your thoughts!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s