Lovely Sunday Whirl words.
When I read them, I got a glimpse of falling stars and so went with the feeling.
A little fantasy/nonsense/whimsy then.
chance, nest, secret, clever, swept, ripe,
blinked, stars, basket, flesh, saw, hand
We grab blankets to steel ourselves against the icy bite of the night air.
We tiptoe across the lawn to sit on the swinging chair under the trees as stars fall down like ripe plums around us.
We pluck them from their grassy nest to cart them home when we have found our fill.
I lay them out across my open hand to feel their weight before I place each one in our basket, then bend to gently sweep another free; for pull too hard and break their backs.
I hold each of the stars up in the glare of the moon hoping she’ll tell me which one holds a secret, or at least a clever clue, in the chance hint of moon beams, the magical, deceitful light.
You fear the ancient superstitions.
You say we shouldn’t let fallen stars see the moon or they will forever long to join her floating far above, forever calling, forever whispering her name in your ear.
You don’t realise that lying there in my hand they can’t call the moon, only feel her aching pull.
Each time I hold a star in my hand I long to see its light, feel its weight, let it warm my flesh.
But you are right. Each star that saw the moon blinked forever out of reach.
And the moon is distant, smiling, lost in her own perfect world, impervious to our anguish, calling us to where she knows we can never go.
My hands are cold. Cherry burning, huckleberry bright and cold.