Near the Johnson Oak
A scimitar, a vase, a sphere: the moon
can be all these, and more. Midnight, dim day.
You walk in wind where gaunt oak branches moan
and last leaves flutter: this, your usual way,
seems somehow ghostly at twilight.
gust-cleaved, as if much time has passed—
your name has changed—you’ve reached some awesome age
and yet, you know the path. Each tree. Each twist
in moonsplashed shadow-trail.
You pass a youth—
the slightest glance—you realize he is you!
You’re tempted to pursue, but fear you both
together: what your meeting up might show
about how slippery reality
can be in moon’s slow light. Halved by one tree.
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