When The Sun Dances With The Moon

By Misha Raj

Faded wood creaks beneath forgotten footsteps

that snake through the ground in

tangled roots.

Rows of hollow glass jars

line the shelves of the cottage

that no one visits anymore.

Honeyed daylight dances with the silver shadows of the moon

and invisible dust moats

catch on fluffy cobwebs

Your evanescent memories

smile impishly

and play in the glade beneath the stars.

The Brooke bubbles with childish laughter

and the sun still dances with the moon.

The merry wind smells like isolation

and the whorls of the tree trunks

look like wooden tears

that glitter with an aching beauty.

Alluding to the fantastical;

your yearning is as blue as the midnight

you snuck out of your house to watch the sky.

Its siren call resonates

in your bumps and ridges,

yet, you are rooted in the ground

your present digs its icy fingers deep into your skin

and your heart pumps frozen blood through your veins.

Soon, the footsteps fade to silence.

The river runs dry.

The cottage rots away.

You gaze at the yellow daylight,

wondering if perhaps

The sun never danced with the moon after all.

By Misha Raj