Under a star-stuccoed sky, we wander in the cold among the pine furnishings, we tramp a parquet of bark and brown needles. We say truth is found in the clear shine of day, but lit by the room’s lunar lamp we might know something more for seeing less. Distinctions dim, until who we are is second to the blending. Light flakes off the moon and fuses with the freezing air.
Copyright 2007 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in the 2009 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar