Remembrance of nocturnal things imperfect
It is the middle of a warm summer night
I am running down the stairs,
quickly and excitedly, with my neighbours following me.
We all want to see the full moon.
It just fell down in the front yard.
I saw it coming down like an unwashed potato,
staining the sky with its brown dirt.
There it is,
lying on the ground,
a giant spud, trampling the grass it landed on,
showering its fine dust all over our bodies.
A cloud of bats are circling round it,
squeaking at this strange visitor.
I approach it warily. I touch it.
It is ice-cold and alluring,
sparkling in the full moon light.
I wait for it to reveal to me the mystery of the night
but it remains stubbornly silent
as it has been through the eons.
I remember well the comical expressions of confusion
on the faces of my neighbours,
and the feelings of enigma,
inexplicable wonder overwhelming me.