In the spirit of John O’Donohue, my Celtic mystic muse…

Let go the moon, you floating,

bloated fragments of dust

in puffy folds of grey garment.

 

A moth-like attraction awaits

slow-dancing lovers, awakening to

their sash of freedom, dipped in dreams.

 

Perform for us your indigo dance,

your crescendo voice, psalming, and

outsing our shadows, our climbing hopes.

 

Now you are but jesting,

your perfect belly aglow in purpose-

to hunt for keepers of secrets.

 

If we crack your mystery too soon,

your tricks are complete, your secrets lost,

and we miss joy-filled jaws, agape.

 

So, let go the moon, silly fools,

if only that she may this once boast

her naked story.