Moonlight On The Brook

After Ralph Albert Blakelock

Unearthly still. Trees dig their roots in brown mud

like hands intertwined in bloodlines, dampened

by dew in Night’s sky. The stars don’t blink.

They’re undetectable, but its presence remains traced

up the spine, as warm as fireflies landing on fingertips. 

It’s alarming in a calming way. Deep sea viridian green

glazed into blue, blackened by darker hues. Untouched

black paint— amused. Never the color black alone. No. 

The painter’s hand never fully used the color black.

Cirrus clouds cover the sky, traveling with an unknown 

purpose. The clouds will never depart from this moment

of solitude, just as the yellow moon will always widen

in comparison to moving debris, brushing against a smiling

lake in reverse. 

For a moment, sitting on the grass with feet planted—

never moving— I could feel the hands of the land 

engulfing me, asking me to dance; I will never again

mistake solitude for loneliness.

Unabatingly quiet. The trees don’t sleep, and I wouldn’t

break the silence to stretch my mouth open wide, a yawn

escaping once pressed lips, leading to the river. I am

drinking nothing except pure existence.