SINECURE OF MOONLIGHT
by Charles Carreon
You have lost your blossom --
You have lost your places on the Tree.
Upright, upon our feet,
We walk among the fleeing hordes
Blown by the killing wind. We find
the flushed corpses of blossoms
Rotting in wetness.
Our eyes reflect the color of the sky,
We are wrapped in the blanket of the wind,
We stand and watch the exodus of clouds,
Escaping over the horizon.
The abandoned shed,
tilting slightly on rotten beams
Affords sweet, if tenuous shelter,
The rickety walls showing splinters of light --
Nail and knotholes where the wind
Ventures probing fingers of transparent blue.
Here I could live
On a sinecure of moonlight,
On a stipend of grass,
Receiving remittances from sparrows,
Sleeping in old hay,
Reading the scraps of outdated dailies.
Watching the course of prolific summers,
Inhaling the splendor of moth-studded nights,
At last you might discover a road out,
Appearing like a mirage in the north wall --
Passing through, you might find yourself
At last among the migrating stars.