Last night, the twenty-seven twenty-eighths
full moon, playing coy as a Rubens model
behind a pale veil of haze, cast her
soft halo glow upon a new dusting of snow.
By the window I idly sat in the dark of my room,
gazing out on the bared-treed landscape,
a scribble of black ups and downs,
a two-year old’s drawing of stick men,
arms raised in static surrender.
Nothing moved outside or within me
for that hour I stared through open curtain
eager to catch a glimpse of life
refected upon either side of my eyes.
When you’re worn out from the dance
of hope and submission, trying and failing
for so long, admitting defeat becomes easy.
You just close your eyes, drop the blinds
and fade away into complete darkness.
No one can see you and you don’t see them
in a perfect ignorance of mutual existence.
Then, the tiniest movement, a rabbit venturing
from the safety of the brush, daring the nibble
in the face of fox’s bite, caught the merest corner
of my eye, sparking the poet to once more try.