New Year's Eve, and we aren't celebrating. I'm already garbed for bed. But outside the moon is rising, the "blue moon," and of course I have to go out in my bedclothes to see it, along with my digital camera, although I'm no good as yet in taking night photos.
Fog everywhere. Inside it, the lineaments of the trees beside our house fascinate me. I wish I could paint them. Instead I snap a not very good photo.
Then I find her, Mistress Blue Moon, hiding behind a tall pine.
Blue Moon
Why so blue,
the fog swirled
around you
atop the tree?
I try to snare
you with shutter
clicks, New Year’s
Eve having gone
to my head,
bubbles bursting
around me
as I roam
the backyard
in muddy scuffs
and gray nubby
bathrobe (on which
my dog sleeps
every night).
Why so blue,
I ask myself
looking up at you,
oh you moon
turning fog
into gauze into
silk into spider’s
web (choose
one) I'm trolling
through
as if I don't
want to go back
inside to the light
of a room
where I know
every shadow that
waits for me.
The fog as captured by my camera looked like bubbles! Champagne bubbles?
Inside, real champagne waited in the fridge. We would save it for New Year's Day when we felt more celebratory. Tonight I longed only to fall asleep, knowing the fog swaddled everything outside, erasing the rough edges. Easing us into another year, like a veil drifting before our eyes, one that would be gone when morning came.
