The tops of the tall trees applauded their wind filled leaves, and as butterfly nets, we gathered the words to open the other’s heart out of thin air. Tongues flapping as translucent wings kissed by constellation starlight’s grace. We spoke of the sky, tried to be as giving as the sun. Warm.
He said to me “You are an explosion of joy.” Then I began to ponder, perhaps the sun thinks itself to be cold. Perhaps it is the vastness, the distance between bodies, that alters perception. Confuses one long enough to not see how they shine in the hearts and minds of others. Perhaps the sun thinks itself to be cold –
and you know, just sits there, giving life to dreams hiding behind secret shadows full grown, by stepping across the horizon of a despair filled mourning, singing to the moon.
And just maybe the moon thinks itself to be a bright shining star. Unaware that its body is borrowed, it fashions itself to be the brightest light in the night sky.
Shhh. Please don’t break her illusion, don’t wake the moon up anymore than you would yourself. Her lips sing symphony keys that demystify the water labyrinth, and turns doubt into a mist over a lake by morning.
And what is transformation, but a gentle release of a swiftly forgotten ember from the camp fire. Where the souls of nature spirits dance as cold stars, finally remembering who they are.
Kevon Simpson 2017