Before Moonset

John Muro

Eyes still narrowed by sleep,

I’m lured by the warbling light

that comes from just beyond my

bedroom window – succor for

the dream-weary and woebegone –

where wind has been dispatched

to whet the edges of dormers with

shafts of moonlight, fastening

moss-softened shingles, glazing

dormer panes and soldering the

fluted columns of copper down-

spouts, while fireflies appear to

rise and fall like musical notes

beneath the soffits, silently seeding

the air with undulant sparks of

blond light, some rising heaven-

wards, others dispersed into the

emptiness that sits between the

leafy stubble of oaks, and still

others falling towards the sunken

sanctuary of lawn that’s littered

with a day’s detritus – overturned

baskets; the woolly spread of

blankets; a child’s spade and rake;

and a loose tangle of rope – as if

I had somehow stumbled upon

a fatigued nightfall toiling with

its assembly of homespun instruments

strewn across a matted earth, to

reclaim and repair what’s left of

this day before primitive dawn

knocks, startles and encircles the

world, displacing dream and wonder

with its cold clarity and well-

spring of wearisome light.