I had been writing at the cabin in the woods, struggling for hours with a few simple lines, putting in a comma, taking it out again, like that. When you believe in an economy of words, every mark on the page counts. I had stopped for the day, packed up my notebooks, and was headed back to the house in the dusk, preoccupied. And there it was: the moon on the ground.
What had stopped me in my tracks was a reflection on a vernal pool. The moon had just cleared the treetops. But eyes down, I saw it on the water first, and for an instant, this was the moon, there was no other.
For a moment I had entered a different reality. It took no effort. I stood for a moment looking back and forth from the moon in the sky to the moon in the pool, and I tried to recapture the belief in the reflection, the acceptance of the abstract, but could not. I had come to my senses. But I marked the spot with a field stone cairn to remind me of what is possible.
I passed that spot again today. A soft rain walked across the hill, more seen against the black trees than felt. There was no moon. But there was.
Proof
Moon on the ground
after the icicle days
after the sugar snow
after the organ pipes
fall from the eaves
moon on the ground
after the feathers of hoarfrost
drop from the stems
after the wreckage of birds
after the voles and the thaw
moon on the ground
after the commonplace doubt
after the atman lies pooled
after the rain on the fields
moon on the ground.
copyright 2010 by J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
