Walking With the Moon, A Poet's Poem
WALKING WITH THE MOON
I have walked this road with the Moon
many times
before,
have sought shelter from chilling rain and driving snow
beneath the wide fanned arms of the friendly cedar
by the crook in the river
where the road crosses the slow-moving water
over the grey-board bridge
close to the Wilson farmhouse
up on the hill to the East.
Whenever I am here
the full moon is always half-behind the
Wilson farmhouse,
beaming at the road and the bridge and the river--
tonight, sheening the cedar tree
in crystalline sheets of moving light.
Always there.
No one,
not even the very old ones,
could remember the Moon
in the deep sky
anywhere else but
half-behind the Wilson farmhouse.
Always there.
Always full.
Don’ figger, said the oldest of the old,
moon’s s’posed t’move around some
fer variety I figger, but not here.
One day solemn men
came with dials and instruments and
glowing boxes to prove
the Moon could not always
be
where it was.
On cloudy nights the Moon shone
in gauzy translucence
half-behind the
Wilson farmhouse
On cloudless nights the Moon cast
the half-shadow
of the Wilson farmhouse
in rhythmic tendrils
over the crook in the river.
On storm-lashed nights the Moon dimmed
through the murk, guiding
the rain half-behind
the Wilson farmhouse.
The measurers returned to their
grey enclosures to
document
their
failure.
I still walk that road, wraiths of those
before me
iridescent
in the blue glow of the
winding road,
protected by the shadow of the Wilson farmhouse,
guided by the river that shows the way
but never moves
out of the moonlight.
© robert cook
