Ancient Echos
A poem for this year's closing full moon.
Tell me — Who was I expecting to find in this morning’s light? Who is that, standing at my door without invitation? The moon + sun take their turns, responding to my questions. The paper beneath my hands is soft and limp like river-moss flooded by ink and salt water. I am space making. Carving a hollow within to carry more beauty, more grief, more praise, more wild paths and rugged truths. My vessel stands empty — An echo across an ancient desert.
