Hanging Water and the Moon

While your boy naps,
he dreams in the garden
menagerie that knows no
Continent, latitude or
longitude, and is at home in
flocks of birds and herds
of beasts. Your hair, now
reflecting Rumi’s watery
path, is braided and piled
up in cold light. With every mystic’s
word you read, a storm of
blues is born and dances in
in the choroids of your eyes.
With each phrase a wave charges
from planted foot to finger tip
carrying a sea of gestures
that crash out of you through
hog’s hair and seasoned
hardwood. Your boy’s heart,
a gift, beats; a metronome
by which your family, a symphony
anima, turns
under the marching
phases of the moon
you painted, still, for
a moment on my wall.

Photo of a portion of a painting by Alicia Ethridge