i had not gone fishing that night

i had not gone fishing that night.

the sun was down, with dark clouds hovering low.
me, in my rudderless boat, staring at the sky.
was i thinking of fish? I think i was just lost at sea.

i was thinking, (well, i don't remember exactly)
caught up in a brief break in the clouds. the stars
were out, shining their shining. i saw them,
but didn't. i was looking for the moon, her full, hovering
beauty imprinted still on my mind.

but this night, the moon was but a sliver of light, and i...
i was without remorse. i had come to that place of understanding
that the moon's light neither waxes nor wanes within the confines of
shadow. she becomes invisible in this shadowland, and perhaps this
is for the best, for who can take the beauty of the moon on a starless
night and call her their own? she was not mine to have.

and the tide, it pulled me in, it pushed me out; this motion set about
by the moon. (oh, my moon!)

i looked out, saw the waves come lapping gentle onto my boards.
the crash and turbulence, the rocking of my boat, shook me from
my reverie. i looked down, saw these dreams gasping at my feet.

oh, beautiful dreams born of moon and tide, how did you land here,
and why? i saw your gasping, your grasping at calming waters.

who was i to return you to your sea?
i was only a lost and rudderless boat.
i had not gone fishing that night;
i was no fisherman.

yet i took you home, slipped you into my
warm, salty waters and called you my own.


--bruised orange