harvest moonIt’s a harvest moon.

I watch the orange hues rise from my back porch.  Sitting in the darkness, my busy day official put to bed, I use the light of my table top solar light to write by.

Crickets sing their final songs of summer.  A pause for a sip of the decaf latte I made myself. Thin traffic hums down the two main roads by the house.

I am lonely tonight. And I’m sad tonight. And I am happy.  And I am inspired.

The weather has cooled dramatically, I’m cuddled up in a comfy sweater. There is no fashion about it, only comfort.

A dog barks here, there, far away; it echoes against the foot hills that jut up nearby.  A baby cries somewhere, reluctant to go to sleep.

A phone rings in a neighbor’s house; I wonder who could be on the other line. A solicitor, a family member, teacher, preacher, friend?  News to change one’s life or no news at all.

A few streets over someone roars the engine of a car, the kind of roar that comes from fixing a car, working on that dream car in between the hours of work and sleep.

The moon rises, rises, playing peek-a-boo with me behind some trees. Soon he’ll dance high in the night sky, not much will block out his bright white light.

Cars run over a manhole cover, three in a row, click clap, thump thump, bump bump.

Sprinklers come on in the neighbor’s yard.  Soon it will be time to turn all the water off, blow out the sprinklers.  Fall is here.  I’m ready for it.  I’m tired of putting up massive bunches of tomatoes, zucchini, pesto…and maybe my garden and flowers are tried too.

A moment of brief silence fills the air.

No cars go by. The crickets take a breath. No dogs bark. The sprinklers shut off.

And I breathe and look at the moon, my friend; and am content in this moment, this one, brief, slight moment.  This simple moment I’m inspired; and my world…my world is poetry.