Emerson once asked Thoreau, “Why don’t you keep a journal?” Thoreau could not think of an answer, so he wrote Walden.
My friend asked me, “Why don’t you have a blog?” And so–I begin…
Stone Moon
Old dog on a long leash
sniffs dried leaves
and we meander through the park.
On a sunny day when it should
have been cold and raining
we steal some time.
I find myself thinking about the moon
what a sweet gift it was to
see it rising full through the
trees last night
and how I used to keep track
of moon tides, but I have forgotten.
When I was five, I knew the world.
The moon followed me—just me
riding in the car, or on my bike
racing home in the evening
the moon looked out for me.
When I learned its light
did not come from within
I simply did not believe it.
The moon shines for me, I knew.
I walk head down and
wonder, when did that happen?
At what point did I stop looking toward sun and sky?
When did I stop believing that
the moon was my shepherd?
I find a small perfectly round white stone.
I pick it up and shelter it in my pocket,
so, I won’t forget the moon.
I have seen a medicine that’s able to breathe life into a stone.
− All’s Well that Ends Well
