My outdoorsy husband’s iPhone charts the stars.
He holds it to the sky, and an app plays
dot to dot with fire suspended in spaces
he’s never been.
He dreams of Nashville evenings,
classifies his days as though they are the fine woods
he turns into better things.
We want to turn into better things.
I dreamed of New York before the children crept
into me. Now every inch of my home is a crawl space
as colored plastic works on my sanity, diligently
as though it will be paid.
My days are floors and counters.
I identify stains and know not just that it is urine
but also whose.
We sing old songs to fill the air that fills
the rooms between other people’s dreams–
a violin among the dance shoes,
caped costumes and batarangs,
tea at noon for twelve puppies and an octopus.
The skies come to me these days.
As sure as my husband’s astrophysics,
my own sun and moon come bedside, gifts in tow at 6 a.m.–
Lego heroes in need of repair from their long night of sleep,
a sushi backpack full of marbles, missing jewelry, and silverware,
carried in with a blanket, blue as our Florida sky and covered
in white circles our smallest one calls “moons.”
We realize new dreams,
beaming at us, always whole.
Today’s prompt is “What kind of moonlight comes through your window, covers your lawn or glistens over the last of the snow?”
Share your moonlight poem in the comments, and join us tomorrow for another!by