Walk In The Dark

 In the quiet splendor of a predawn morn
the moon gilds the hoophouse in shiny opulence.

Lace riven configurations circle the sky

with the moon at their apex high above the earth

circling quiet, like a giant snow globe—

how could one ever think this world flat?

And I, an inconsequential ant of a being

Invades the quiet on a shuffle across the frozen grass

in my husband’s boots and a hand-me-down coat

and my daddy’s hat with the flashlight of my mother’s trepidation

in my pocket just in case.

But if you walk in the dark you see the dark,

the dark a friend if you see it thus,

but chickens need light as much as scratch and

I flick the switch in the pumphouse to juice one newly

installed that said husband thinks will fool them

into thinking we've reached beyond the darkest day

but they only blink and murmur and stir on their roost. 

An owl hootsfrom a branch with blood on his mind 

and I stop to gaze upwards in dizzying amaze

at the splendor of this quiet morn there for all to see if we but look up.

Happy Thanksgiving. May it be a peaceful one.   

Reminded to be thankful (and praising) by Brendan at Earthweal, 

with his shared story of the Austrian poet Rilke...

And if the earthly no longer knows your name

whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing. To the flashing water say: I am.