Great Grandpa Dean and the Moon Child


The baby comes slowly from the dark
round silence; day by day, she fingers
the soft line of her universe.

Just as sure as the arrival nears,
the opposite current pulls the far shore closer.

I'm not sure if you know what this means:
pull of the moon, dark energy, mystery
upon mystery.

My father lies on a strange bed dreaming of my mother.
If he dreams too much he'll go there.

We schedule the sisters and cousins to come steadily
like a flock of snow geese. Each will shake out their
pillow-like feathers, look at each other with dark gem eyes,
nod as they take turns around the bed.

When he awakens he'll remember the snow of his dream,
how he wanted to walk out across the field,
but up came all those soft and glorious wings.

He'll stay for us, and to meet the new baby
when she comes forth, wise beyond measure,
staring into his eyes from the dream-time.

They will exchange a story and prayer
only they will understand. She'll stay and
grow tall in the garden of sunflowers.

Father will slow his steps,
and by the time we look back
he'll be gone.





for Great Grandpa Dean and the Moon Child

c2012 T.L.Stokes (all rights reserved)