Did you stop now that you found the moon almost full,
floating west across a small clearing between the clouds?
Did you still yourself in the lawn chair on the deck, and give up
waiting for one desire to name itself, or another to dissipate?
Where have you been, the beautiful world asks.
Wind furrows your hair. The moon folds under a cloud
the size of a great lake. The light leaves in increments.
Lightning bugs thread their stories through the cedars,
which hold all seasons, whether witnessed or not.
The deep charcoal of the windy night blows through you.
Then the moon rolls slowly back out, a flashlight looking for you.
Why have you spent yourself ignoring this?