we stand under a moon gazing upward at its silver face from our earthly spinning diorama of cities and oceans where we silently gather, leaning on the uncertainty of our place, questioning without answer, the miracle suspended in a dark sky
what to tell the moon while untangling knots of words as they become hosts of vapors rising from candles on the cake, releasing wishes from past silver nights and quiet steps joined in same direction
his face, locked in the evidence of a traveled soul inner sufferings surfaced as disturbed currents threads from his past acted as an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of his unknown parts
there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday
eyes of clouds watched over me in faintest of darkness or summer shoreline, on equal or unequal ground, beneath the place I stand, wondering upward where currents swirl unnoticed above me as I glance into a vapor face passing without voice like the dreams I know in the invisible
a cool mist of wavy breezes circles me while standing on the shoreline examining the distance of waters under starlight and the darkness of a gray blue eerie horizon of unfathomable depth as it absorbs the passing day
on the bottom, looking up into gauzy folds of water, feeling pressure on my chest, securing me within this green blue garden where light is absorbed above into waves passing overhead, unobstructed, as I observe the other side of looking down
morning breezes carry the keys of day as tides mark the hours and sun creates shade on everything during the current solstice or equinox reminding the short minded, those lacking patience while standing at their edge of their faint hope, summers are fleeting, but memories are forever
a darkened path, tight like a line of granite fists rebels against the changing season, though finally surrendering like the last leaf, separating its bond due to issuing winds, as overwhelming changes sculpt the next solstice to rediscover itself
the ebb and flow, searching for an eventide, a homeostasis of flesh and cloth weaving unspoken, threads without contact yet touching without knowing, the salmon instinct of activity, the struggle in mass for the end result, each arriving separately
Roger Singer 