Genevieve Fitzgerald

Under the Moon
Wind pushes the dry leaves along the ground
Sounds the wind chimes
A branch scrapes the patio, across the cement
To the yard I follow
A dark path into the forest
Dimly glowing through heavy vines
The ghostly suggestion of eyes behind aspen trunks in the mist;
Figures perhaps
Or ghosts
Or dreams
Or spirits
From another part of my soul
Let out only now, only here, in the rustling of wind
That will blow them away
Before they can speak.
Why can I never grasp the miracle
Firmly?