A moonbeam dropped down,
a slip of silver flooding this space
before me; I stand outside, alone
in a world anticipating another
night falling, the settling of day. During this
periwinkle time when we should tuck
our worries to bed, soak in a light
that promises sweet, sweet rest,
I wait for the calm to descend.
Last night my husband dreamed
of angels flying above his head
as I listened to his heavy breaths —
he drowsed so deeply
that I might have felt envy
but for the quiet time to pray.
I’ve found this moon time communion
has become more and more of my
every night, my mind full of uncertainty.
It is not a waning faith, just a real question
about what all of this means —
Are we changed forever by this novel
virus, this menace we cannot see?
It just leaves pain and unease.
But these moonbeams feel clean,
like the light Adam and Eve slept under
the first night, dreaming in a perfect world,
in a perfect slumber, before disquiet began;
I think I’ll dwell on that, fall into deep rest,
dreaming of what one day will be
—C.L. Fisher, April 2020
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