Thursday, October 11, 2012

Moons Are Not Philosophers

When you were young enough to be
Proud of being grown up, you stood
On a winter's beach in Scotland,
Watching a cold moon rise above

Black waves dividing you from your
Previous conception of home,
And you noticed, and you marveled,
For not the first or the last time

At what is wholly obvious,
That the alien moon that shone
On the alien shore where you
Felt wholly at home and homesick

Was the same pocked rock reflecting
On the overgrown leafy sprawl
You more or less, lost, grew up in,
Besotted with divine insight.

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