at midnight,
moonbeams crisscross,
building a silver hammock
over the somnolent lake,
she stretches at last,
unbuttoning life, slowly,
one reluctant clasp at a time,
reality pooling like indigo silk at her feet,
seeping into the detritus of time and space,
just the singular drama of her breath,
not alive, an evanescent animation,
like a breeze slipping in and out of the first spring leaves;

a channel,
between earth and sky,
reading their unsent messages,
feeling their forces harmonize
along her star encrusted frame,
the smell of ancient alluvium
rising like a ghostly stalagmite,
swallowing all context,
shrouding the mystery of being,
nothing can exist, without moment and place,
just the odd spectacle of her breath,
masking her absence,
like a question, a prayer falling with the early rain.

For Poets UnitedΒ where the midweek prompt is “The inanimate and the non-human”

42 thoughts on “Alive

  1. Lovely, Rajani… “nothing can exist, without moment or place…” I liked that. It gave me a sense of the way each moment is linked to the others, and how each one reveals something unique.

    And how eternity must be a moment, and a place…



  2. There are so many illustrations of the moon as a couch for adventurous people and you come up with a most beautiful one with your character leading this enchanted poem on. Excellent work.


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