The moon was kind enough
to linger this morning,
knowing that I wanted
a photograph, and that
I needed sufficient ambient
light to allow me
to fully capture her visage.
Sometimes she rises early
and shows her face
before the sun retreats.
I suppose it may just
be vanity on the moon’s part,
showing off for her brighter
sibling, certain I will never
pause to photograph Sol.
Tomorrow it will be cloudy
most likely, and on that day
the sun will get the last laugh.
Mother gone
resting perhaps
next to
her daughter
who lingered
until even she
grew tired
of battling
the cells that
were slowly
consuming her,
now with someone
to continue
their argument
for the rest
of eternity.
In many ways thoughts
are very much like cats.
By that I mean that they
are known to wander in
and stay as long as they like
and never a moment longer.
If you feed or stroke them
they may linger, but please
rest assured that if you really
want them to stay, try
though you might, they
will find an open window
or door and be gone
the next time you look.
What is there in a yawn
that has time inexorably slow,
flattening notes by some unknown
but ever constant fraction of a tone
so that each lingers painfully before proceeding?
A moment is locked in place,
frozen like Schroedinger’s cat
before observation.
There are moments
he said, when everything
is suddenly clear
and obvious to me.
But they slip away
and their shadows
quickly fade away.
She said if you stop
looking for the fog
the clarity might linger
besides, how do you
know what is clear
and what is not.
an old writer and his words 